Wicked, The Zen Tribal Musical
by HigherMagic
Summary: Highschool AU: It's Castiel's senior year. One year before he can finally be free from his abusive father, and he's ready to go through it nice and quiet and leave with as much going for him as he can to get into a good college. Enter the Winchesters.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Wickéd – The Zen Tribal Musical  
><strong>Author:<strong> HigherMagic  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Dean/Castiel, Dean/Michael, Castiel/OMC (non-con), Sam/Gabriel, Ruby/OMCs  
><strong>Rating:<strong> NC-17  
><strong>Word Count: <strong>WIP**  
>Warnings:<strong> character death, child abuse, domestic violence and bullying, total butchery of the arts, cliché, angst, language, musicals, and sexual situations including minors and scenes of incest.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>Dean's songs are all Skillet songs. If you want to know the specific tracks, lemme know and I'll sort them out for you. This may give you images associated with the songs you don't want. Lord knows I'll never be able to sing them in church the same way again. I've made Sam and Dean closer in age to suit the story; Sam's 16, Dean's 17. Gabriel's 17 and Michael's 19, Ruby's 15 and Castiel's 17. Every pairing up there except for Ruby's and Sam/Gabriel is graphically portrayed. Fair warning.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> It's Castiel's senior year. One year before he can finally be free from his violent and abusive father, and he's ready to go through it nice and quiet and leave with as much going for him as he can to get into a good college. That is until 'Zen', the quirky and arguably insane dramatic arts professor, decides he would be perfect to play 'Elfabio', the leading role in 'Wickéd – The Zen Tribal Musical'. The other (very male) lead is Dean Winchester and, despite all of his attempts to avoid it, Castiel finds himself growing attached to the charming junior. Even more so when he finds out that Dean's got some skeletons of his own.

* * *

><p>"Dean?"<p>

The soft utterance of his name is accompanied by a gentle touch on his shoulder, slim fingers just digging in slightly, and Dean starts awake, blinking open bleary eyes and turning over in his bed. The room is lit well by the light of the waxing gibbous moon outside (or something, Sam had mentioned it but Dean pointedly tunes out Sam when he goes into 'super geek' mode) and Dean can easily see the silhouette of his younger brother's body, bent over his bed, expression set tight into concern.

"What is it, Sam?" Dean murmurs, but is cut off when Sam shushes him, putting a finger to his own mouth. His eyes dart back to his own bed and Dean follows his gaze, to where the sheets are tightly entwined around a small figure. A large halo of raven black hair fans out behind a small face, Ruby's fearful and too-knowing eyes gazing at the two brothers as they stare back at her.

"Rubles was havin' nightmares," Sam says, half apologetic, half explanatory. One shoulder lifts in a half-shrug when the fifteen-year-old girl pulls the blankets around herself even tighter, burrowing her face so that most of her body, apart from her eyes, is hidden, so she can still see and watch. "Can I share with you tonight?"

Dean blinks at his little brother for a moment, to the earnest face mostly hidden by shower-damp brown hair, and then their little sister, still curled up protectively against the cold and her nightmares, and quietly acquiesces, moving to one side on his bed (which is hardly big enough to fit him on anymore, let alone Sam as well) so that Sam can join him under the covers. Sam shoots him a grateful smile, lifting the sheet and thick duvet and burrowing in comfortably into Dean's bed. He immediately steals the better pillow, like he used to when they were little, and Dean smirks softly to himself, affection and amused exasperation welling up in him.

He throws an arm around Sam's waist because that is the only way that they will be able to sleep comfortably, the bed being as small as it is, and he lifts his head to peek at Ruby over Sam's shoulder. "You okay over there, Rubles?"

He can see the girl shift slightly, her thighs curling up to her stomach and there is a rise under the sheets that is her arm wrapping around her shins, protecting her belly, and she nods slightly – just a little twitch of her head. Dean sighs, satisfied with that, and settles back down to let himself drift off again.

It has been a few good months since Ruby had to sneak into Sam and Dean's room because of her nightmares, but it is easy to slip back into the habit of waiting until both his siblings' – Sam's and their adopted sister's – breathing evens out in peaceful, untroubled sleep. He takes comfort in the scent of Sam's shampoo and the light, even snores of his little brother, almost completely asleep when Ruby's small voice drifts over him from the other bed, across the room.

"…Dean?"

Immediately he is awake again, and he lifts his head to look over at her. "Yeah, sweetheart?"

The girl shifts again, rolling over in Sam's bed to face the window, then back. "I can't sleep."

Dean presses his lips together, before he pushes himself upright with his free hand. Looking at the clock on his nightstand, he sees that it is almost four in the morning, and wonders just how bad Ruby's nightmares had gotten before she had snuck into their room. It makes Dean feel good that she trusts them enough to come to them when she is afraid, but at the same time, he just wishes she would be able to have one good night, sleeping peacefully without any of the nightmares that have plagued her for the two years that she has lived with the Winchesters.

He carefully extricates himself from Sam, which isn't difficult because once his baby brother is out, only an earthquake would wake him, and even then it's touch and go. His bare feet land on the cool hardwood of his floor and he shivers when the night-cool air brushes over his skin, and pulls on a t-shirt because he doesn't want to scare Ruby. Then, he goes over to her bed and sits on the floor beside the bed, leaning back against Sam's nightstand and letting himself take up as little space as possible. Soon enough, the girl's head peaks over the edge of the bed, her fingers curled tightly in her sheets so they stay firmly wrapped around her shoulders, and she watches him with dark brown eyes.

He wants to know what she dreamt about, but he probably knows the answer and doesn't want to make her talk about it if she doesn't want to. It is not his place. "You excited for school next week?" he asks, looking up at her with a small smile – she will be due to start high school with him and Sam in the new year. She is a little young still, but she was born a late baby and she tested higher than the other kids in her class, so was able to move up a grade and join them. It was pretty awesome, and Dean is looking forward to being able to keep an eye on her and protect her while she is at school as well as at home. He feels like he should – anything to make himself a little bit better, to help a little bit more.

She gives a one shouldered shrug, but the corner of her mouth quirks up slightly. "Nervous," she confesses, burying her face into the undoubtedly Sam-scented pillow for a moment, and Dean smiles at her. "I mean…all the other kids…there'll be so many of them and…what if I don't make any friends?"

It almost makes Dean laugh, the idea that anyone wouldn't immediately love Ruby. "Of course you'll make friends," he says reassuringly, reaching a hand up to rest against the side of the mattress, for her to take or leave as she pleases. The girl's eyes zero in on his hand and, after a moment of hesitation, she reaches out and twines her small fingers with his. "Who wouldn't want to be your friend? And if anyone gives you trouble, you let me know, okay?" She grins slightly, blushing, and nods. "I'm serious, Rubles."

The pet name makes her nose wrinkle adorably, Dean's grin widening when he sees the flash of exasperation in her eyes. It was Sam's idea, that nickname, and too adorably geeky for Dean to refuse. Just as Sam is Sammy, Ruby is Rubles and that is the way it is between them.

"I don't know what to do, or where to go or anything," Ruby confesses, blinking down at where their fingers are interlaced and tightening her grip slightly, biting her lower lip. "And I won't see you or Sam all day and…"

"We'll be there for lunch," Dean promises with a smile, cocking his head to one side. "And there are loads of clubs for freshmen which I'm sure you can join." He pauses, smile turning a little sly. "And the school play. You should totally try out."

Ruby blushes harder. "Don't they do musicals?" she mumbles, her other hand coming forward to idly play with Dean's fingers, moving up to drag the pads of her fingers over his palm, her eyes following the flex of his hand and the thin, fragile-feeling veins on the back of his hand, touching the calluses on his fingertips from his guitar before she moves up to his wrist, her fingertips tracing the line of his tendon and the bulge of his vein. "I can't really sing all that well…or act…"

Dean snorts softly in derision. "Ruby, you have a voice like an Angel," he argues, and she smiles a little, eyes flashing to his face to check for sincerity before dipping down and away again, back to where she is watching her fingers trace and memorize his hand – it is something Dean learned quickly that calms her down. She likes being able to touch, to go slowly and memorize every small detail and imperfection on a person's skin, in their bones. He's sure that she will become a doctor or surgeon or something when she grows up.

"Did Cas like the song?" she asks after a long while, Dean just sitting and letting her trace his hand and arm, moving his other hand up when she held out her own, demanding he give it to her, and watching her with an indulgent, affectionate smile.

Dean falters for a moment, long enough for her eyes to meet his. "I don't know yet," he says honestly, shrugging a little and curling his knees up towards his stomach, so he can sit up straight and towards the bed, more closely to her. "He never gets on when it's the weekends anyway." He tries not to let show how much that disappoints him. "'Sides, it'll be, like, eight o'clock on a Monday where he is. Or nine. He'll be at his job or something."

She sighs. "Okay." Then, she lets go of Dean's hands, scooting back a little in the bed. "Will you stay with me?" she asks, her fingers curling back into the sheets where they had fallen around her body, hiding her skinny torso which, despite the heat that Sam's super-thick duvet generates, is still covered with one of Dean's old t-shirts that swamp her slight frame and practically drown her.

Again, Dean hesitates. "I don't want you to be scared when you wake up," he says. He knows if she wakes up next to a practically fully-grown man, it won't help her nightmares any, but she is also like Sam – she likes sharing beds with people, likes the feeling of someone wrapping their arms around her. They are both very physically affectionate and Dean likes being able to provide, but he doesn't want to scare her.

She shakes her head, raven hair falling around her face. "You won't," she insists; "I always know when it's you anyway."

After another moment, Dean sighs, smiling a little, and moves around to the other side of the bed so that he can slide in, though he leaves the sheet under him, only using Sam's duvet as a cover so that there are still barriers between them and she won't feel quite so claustrophobic or…_close_. She smiles over her shoulder at him, hooking her hair close to her body so he doesn't accidentally lay on it and trap her, and he smiles, petting a hand through her hair and placing a light kiss to her cheek before settling down next to her.

It takes little more than ten minutes for her breathing to even out in a nice, untroubled sleep, and Dean follows on soon after.

* * *

><p>Nothing much has been unpacked yet. They've just moved in, after all, and the house is still quiet and full of half-empty boxes littered pretty much everywhere. It is far too much space for just the two of them, him and his father, and it makes him wonder just why they ever needed to move over here, into a house they clearly cannot afford, when they were getting by perfectly fine back home.<p>

But, of course, he kind of knows already, even if he doesn't want to think that his father could be that cruel.

His father is asleep, the man's loud and raucous snores echoing down the otherwise eerily silent house, and Castiel Novak gently closes his father's bedroom door behind him, wincing when even the gentle click seems deafening. It hurts a little to walk and he knows in the morning he is going to be crusting and chafing in unmentionable places, but the sound of the shower will wake his father up, undoubtedly, and he doesn't really feel up for a round two.

"Just a few more months," he whispers to himself, padding on bare feet down to his own room and carefully slipping inside. His room isn't much – there's a bed that should really only be referred to as a cot – there is better living space in prison –, a desk, and a large window that long ago was boarded up so no sun or moonlight could peak through. It is very dark but Castiel knows his room well enough by now to go by feel. Besides, there isn't that much yet to trip up over.

He winces when he heads over to the built-in closet, pretty much the only advantage to this room at all. When his father is at work, he will tear off the boards covering the windows and start trying to put a little bit of cheer and personality into the room, but really he is just counting down the days until he gets to flee this godforsaken hellhole. There is only so long Castiel will put up with this once he turns eighteen, and graduates high school. After that it's free sailin'. He has enough money stored away to buy him a cheap plane ticket out of here and set himself up somewhere for a few months, where he can then hopefully find a job and keep moving on, heading up his undoubtedly long ladder to the top of life. He is not going to end up like his parents, stuck in a one-horse town where everyone knows everyone and nothing is a secret.

It's actually kind of sickening to him.

The closet has a detached, rotten-away floorboard – great, just what they need; termites – and it is a small matter to pull the thing out and reveal a decent sized hole beneath it where the bottom panel had lifted the wardrobe a little off the floor. It is about half a foot deep and two wide, and it is the perfect size for Castiel to stash the laptop and charger that his father doesn't technically know he has. They have a main home computer and the wifi guy is coming tomorrow, so Castiel won't be without his access to his future once they have settled a little more.

Apart from his bed and his laptop hideaway, Castiel has only unpacked one other thing – it is a calendar for this year and the next, two of them he stuck together. May 20th is circled in bright red Sharpie on the second calendar – Lawrence High School graduation. The date that he finally becomes free. He will be eighteen by then, and able to live on his own, and he will fly far, far away from here and never have to deal with his alcoholic father ever again, or have the stench of tequila and sex in his nose, or limp away from a bedroom towards a cold, unwelcoming bed that prison would reject for being inhumane.

He sighs, turning away from the calendar that he'd nailed into the wall beside his wardrobe. Not long now.

He pulls out his laptop, firing it up. It was the quietest model they had but they'd forgotten to mention that the fan's a piece of shit and would need to be replaced within six months – the thing sounds like a fucking jet plane now and Castiel's very aware of the snores in the room down the hall, waiting for them to come to an abrupt end when his father's stupor wears off. His jaw hurts, and he rubs at it absently as the computer loads all his programs, ending with MSN Messenger.

The wifi, of course, is not installed yet, so he cannot get online and let Dean know what he thought of his song. He cannot reach anyone online. So, at a loss of anything else to do (because the dull throbbing of his body won't let him sleep now and he won't risk sneaking downstairs to the painkillers because it might wake his father up) he fires up iTunes, plugs in his headphones, and listens to Dean's newest song again, adding to the notes he'd created and tweaking the improvements he'd suggested to it.

"The girl's new," he mutters to himself, almost absently twirling the excess of the headphones around one finger and chewing on his lower lip. "Where'd you find her, hmm?"

Suddenly Castiel's head snaps up, hearing the floorboards creak just outside his room. He hurriedly closes his laptop, yanking his headphones out and shoves the lot under the wardrobe floorboard, replaces it, and dives into bed again. As soon as he gets in under the covers, still fully clothed, he holds his breath and listens. His father's snores still echo down the hallway, but he isn't used to this house yet and he's not taking a fucking chance with anything.

Castiel sighs, rolling onto his back, and resigns himself to a few more paranoid months before he gets used to the new locale and stops jumping at shadows.

* * *

><p>"See you later, mom!" Dean calls, hefting his and Sam's heavy guitars over one shoulder, the other carrying his backpack as he gives his mother a smile into her side-view mirror. She grins back, waving at him, the lights in the back of her car blinking out as she speeds away. Dean shifts, readjusting his grip on the guitar cases, and walks with Ruby into the church.<p>

It's not much – only built for a hundred people, max – but Dean thinks it's the perfect size. He and Sam grew up here and they know practically everyone through either church or school – his mother and father are active members in the congregation, always willing to volunteer extra hands to the Potlucks and charity events that they put on every third Sunday of the month.

Ruby gets the doors for him and he shoots her a grateful smile as they enter the church proper. Sam is already there, along with the other two members of the youth choir – Michael and Gabriel Milton. The three of them are laughing, piles of paper scattered around them and Gabriel seems to have already managed to beat up the drum set enough that the whole thing is a few inches' more spread out than it usually is. Dean smiles more widely, heading down the middle aisle towards the slightly raised platform, where the altar is and off to one side there are two pews for the 'choir'. Well, there had been – the church had them removed once they downsized, making way for Gabriel's drum set and the more modern amps and electric sound system.

"Don't help or anything," he calls out, dumping his backpack on the front pew and grinning at the three other boys as he sets the guitars down with a lot more care, "it's not like they're heavy."

"Gotta get a workout sometime, Dean-o," Gabriel retorts, grinning just as widely. "You're getting heavy, man – need to cut the carbs before Thanksgiving." Then, true to form, he beats at the snare drum and the cymbals, signaling his own joke. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that."

Michael snorts, one side of his mouth curling up higher than the other as he looks at his younger brother. "Says the man with a sweet tooth that would kill gluttony itself," he says, his voice low and smooth and echoing over the sound system, since he's leaning on the microphone stand and talking directly into the mic. Dean's eyes flash up towards Michael, a small blush starting on his cheeks when the older boy winks at him.

Dean doesn't hear Gabriel's retort as Sam comes forward, the both of them dragging their respective guitars apart and unzipping the thin fabric casing. Sam's guitar is a plain black electric, one of the most inexpensive for the kind of sound it makes. Sam's not really that much into the music so he'd insisted that their parents not splurge for an instrument for him – Sammy's gonna grow up to be a lawyer or doctor or something, Dean's sure of it.

Dean, though…his instrument is beautiful. It's a Gibson, a Les Paul Gold Top. He'd looked up prices once after his parents had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday – he'd just been playing old dollar-store guitars before then – and the cheapest one he'd found had been well over a thousand dollars. Of course, price doesn't necessarily equate to quality, but in this case it is definitely so. Dean's fingers close around the neck almost reverently, as he hefts the guitar up and slings the strap around his neck and shoulders, letting it settle comfortably on him.

He'd made sure it was tuned before he and Ruby had left the house, but now he plucks over the strings again, making sure that they not only are correct, but match what Sam's own instrument is producing too, and then again with the Clavinova sitting almost completely unplayed in the corner of the church.

Dean turns around, satisfied with the instruments and ready to begin, to find Michael fixing his sky-blue eyes on Ruby. The girl is shifting nervously from foot to foot, fidgeting, her slim, tan fingers curling into her dark hair, and Dean almost instinctively makes a move to stand between them. "You ready?" he asks Michael, the older teen's eyes snapping up to his face. The look almost makes him want to back off immediately, a slow shiver rolling up his spine from the look in the youth's eyes, but then Michael straightens, smiles, showing too many teeth, and breaks gazes from him.

Sam shrugs his own guitar on, seemingly oblivious to the exchange, and then moves to stand behind the second microphone, leaving Dean to the third. Dean reaches over to grab the leads for the two guitars, knowing Michael has already readied his bass, and then sends an encouraging smile to Ruby.

"You wanna go over to the piano, Rubles?" he asks, smiling to the girl he considers to be as much of his family as Sam is, and she blushes, biting her lower lip, and trips over to the piano, her fingers curling nervously into the loose fabric of her hoodie – one of Sam's old ones, given to her.

Gabriel makes a curious sound, the heads of his drum sticks lightly pattering on the snare drum. Dean turns to Michael, still smiling. "Got an idea a few nights ago, was hoping to run it by you," he says, pretending not to notice the way Michael's dark eyes flash between him and Ruby, the teenager's mouth pressed together into a thin, dissatisfied line. Then, he shrugs, lifting a shoulder, and steps back from the mic, gesturing for Dean to begin.

"Feel free to join in, Sammy, I know you know it," he says to his little brother, then nods at Gabriel, letting him know the sentiment is the same, and then towards Michael, though he's fairly certain the older boy won't join in. He had hoped Michael would warm up to Ruby eventually, but he's not disheartened; he just has to try harder.

The part that will become Sam's guitar part, Ruby covers on the Clavinova. Sam likes to do all the fancy crap too when they sing for the services. Sure enough, as Dean starts the main chord progression, Gabriel starts to tap the gentle base rhythm on the drums. Ruby shoots him a soft smile over the top of the Clavinova and Dean grins back, before he starts the second verse of the song;

_"I see you walking by, your hair always hiding your face…" _He takes a step back, checking that Sam's following; _"I wonder why you've been hurting, I wish I had something to say." _Sam grins when he gets it, starting on the lower harmony as they both look towards their younger sister. Ruby's biting her lower lip, looking down at the keys so that she doesn't mess up, and Sam and Dean share a smile, and Gabriel starts to take up a more confident rhythm on the guitar, the four of them joining, for a brief second, in Dean's half-formed song.

He looks back towards Michael, those dark blue calculating eyes fixed on Dean's hands, the chords he's playing, before those too-seeing eyes look up to watch Dean's face. For a second, Dean stutters over the words, feeling the weight of Michael's gaze, and then, mercifully, the older teen releases him, finding the base notes on his own instrument and lazily plucking a soft under-melody for the song.

Dean sighs in relief, finishing the part of the song he'd written and letting the rest tail off. "It's still a work in progress," he explains, blushing a little, and Sam grins.

"I like it," he announces.

"Yeah, me too," Gabriel adds, stepping down on the base drum pedal, once. He purses his lips in thought. "It's very…" He trails off, waving his hand vaguely in the air… "Wholesome."

Sam bursts out laughing at that, and even Ruby joins in, a little nervously. "Only you would say that like it's a bad thing," the younger Winchester teases gently, grinning large enough to show dimples, as Dean walks over to the side of the piano and puts a hand on Ruby's shoulder.

"You're doin' good, Rubles," he says, squeezing her shoulder a little, and she nods, blushing and biting her lower lip.

"Michael's not very friendly," she says, fisting her hands in her hoodie pocket nervously as she looks down, her short legs kicking at the bottom of the piano.

Dean chuckles, raising a shoulder in a shrug. "To be honest, he's kind of an ass to everyone, but he'll warm up to you, promise."

Ruby looks up, shocked, her wide eyes on Dean's face. "Dean! You can't swear!" She then lowers her voice, stage whispering earnestly; _"We're in a church."_

"I'm sure Jesus had his fair share of cusses too, Rubles," Dean replies good-naturedly, but releases her shoulder. "Alright guys, let's say we get the boring crap outta the way and then we can move to the fun stuff?"

"Sounds good," Gabriel says, stretching out his legs as he stands and moves away from the drum kit. "Move over, kiddo." He nudges gently at the still-blushing Ruby, taking up the second half of the piano bench as he sits next to her. "Only problem with hymns," he complains, reaching under the piano and fishing out 'Songs of Faith and Praise, Piano Edition, Volume II', "we're not allowed drums. Just boring piano and synths and a _bit_ of guitar if Father doesn't flip his sh…lid."

Ruby giggles a little when Gabriel quickly covers up his swear, for her sake, and then her eyes are fixed on the piano music when he opens the book, flipping to a seemingly random page. "_'Christ be our light?'_" she questions, looking over to Sam and Dean who, she's noticed, have gotten their own music stands and are flicking through matching books, these ones for guitar.

Dean shrugs. "Coming up to advent and all that – all the songs will be about the coming of Jesus and his birth and saving us all. Classic gig."

Ruby's family hadn't been religious. At all. But she's been coming to service every Sunday for the past two years since the Winchesters adopted her, saving her from several years in Foster care and other homes. She asks questions and Dean and Sam never hesitate to share aspects of their faith with her, so that she can learn. She's scheduled to take her First Communion in February next year, if her classes keep going well.

The girl nods her understanding, looking back to the music when Gabriel begins to play. Dean gently strums out the guitar chords, following the music with his quickly-darting eyes while Sam picks out a pretty melody over it. They start the song, and yeah, it's pretty, but Ruby sees what Dean meant by 'boring'. It seems almost like a march, like a chant. She understands that it's so that the masses would be able to learn and sing along with the songs, but she has to admit, listening to the boys finish the first verse and move into the chorus, that she likes the original songs that Dean sings to her late at night to lull her back to sleep.

* * *

><p>They practice for a good three hours, until Dean's fingers hurt when they press against the strings and his throat is sore from singing, and they finally call it a day and agree to reconvene and practice some more on Thursday. No one says a thing when Dean and Michael stay behind while the rest of them pack up and leave, turning off the sound system on their way out. The figure the two older members of the band have more song lyrics to go over, since Dean and Michael usually write all of their original songs.<p>

Dean's busy fiddling with the zip of his guitar case when Michael comes forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You sounded good today, Dean," he murmurs, leaning down so his warm breath skates across Dean's neck, making the younger teen shiver, his fingers tightening on the side and edge of the pew.

"Th-Thanks," he replies, turning his head just slightly so he feels the gentle press of Michael's nose against his cheek, the older teen's vivid eyes half-lidded and watching him like a lazy predator. Michael's fingers tighten in Dean's sensitive neck, making the teen hiss. "So did you."

"Hmm." Michael tilts his head to one side, pressing his lips against Dean's cheek, and the teen's eyes fall closed. "Come with me."

Dean swallows, nodding and follows Michael when the older teen moves away from him, back towards the Annex and then further, into the Blessed Sacrament Chapel. The room is small, intimate, made to hold maybe a dozen people at a stretch, and Dean's cheeks burn when he feels the heavy eyes of the large Virgin Mary statue staring down at him from one corner of the room, her Son looking from another, and the giant cross mounted on the wall behind the altar.

There are three pews, made to sit two or three people, on either side, braced against the wall and forming a central aisle, a small altar at the front, and Dean moves under Michael's watchful gaze to stand in front of it, turning around when he senses the taller boy behind him.

Michael's hand comes up, gently raising Dean's chin with his knuckle, his expression carefully neutral. "I don't like it when you bring that girl here, Dean," he murmurs, his other hand brushing up Dean's flank, gentling the sting in his words, and Dean bites his lip, looking away. "She has a demon taint on her."

"Ruby's a good person," Dean argues quietly, but not daring to meet Michael's eyes. His hands reach back, finding the cold, hard edge of the altar, and he braces his hands against it hard enough that his aching fingertips burn on the contact. "She's not evil."

Michael pauses, his hand still gently brushing against Dean's face, lulling him into a sense of peace that he always gets when he steps into the church, into the Chapel here, where they are now – like everything he's feeling is nothing compared to the weight He felt, and Dean's problems and worries are only as big as he lets them be. He flinches, startled, when Michael leans forward and kisses him, soft, warm lips molding against his own.

The older teen steps closer, knowing in where his hands land on Dean's body because this is not their first time doing this – not even close. "I have given you so much, Dean," Michael intones, his voice heavy and full of the voice of God, and Dean shudders again, his heart jumping in fear, "yet you still question me. Why?"

Dean's breath hitches when Michael kisses him again, deeper this time, more urgent and impatient as he presses with his hard athlete's body, trapping Dean between his flesh and the altar. The boy scrambles back, trying to free himself, one arm going around Michael's shoulders, the other still bracing himself against the altar, trying to lift himself up so the pressure is alleviated somewhat, but it's no use – Michael's hand finds his wrist and pushes back so Dean has to fall backwards against the altar, the hard edge digging into his back and eliciting a soft gasp from him.

"I'm sorry," Dean murmurs, his eyes falling closed as Michael kisses him again, drives him back with the press of teeth and tongue and a low, inhuman-sounding snarl. Dean shivers, able to feel the rough burn of electricity as he imagines Michael's power rolling in the room, his Angel's wings arching high in dominance and the wrath of God. "I'm sorry, Michael. Forgive me." The plea is cut off abruptly in a harsh cry, wrenched from a sore throat, as Dean throws his head back, his fingers tightening in Michael's shirt as the older teen weaves a hand between them, palming Dean's sensitive flesh. "Please. Forgive me."

"Hmm." Michael forsakes his mouth, then, listening to the younger boy's breathy gasps and low, bitten-back whimpers in the otherwise silent room, his harsh fingers pulling Dean close to his body and then forcing him down with a hand in his hair. "Kneel for me, Dean," he whispers, smiling in pleasure when the younger boy gracefully sinks to his knees, staring up at Michael with an expression just short of adoration. "You are unclean for once again inviting that taint into your house, for letting it live there."

Dean swallows again, his eyes shining brightly with fear – scared that Michael will cast him aside. Again. He had done so when Dean's family had first adopted Ruby into their home, and Dean had had to spend many hours on his knees in prayer to earn his Angel's love back.

It's worth it to keep Ruby safe and happy.

Michael breaks the silence again with a low moan when Dean takes him into his mouth, the teen sucking him down with the ease of many months' practice. The curl of Dean's tongue and the tight, wet warmth of his mouth earn a low growl from Michael, a clenching of pale fingers in Dean's hair. Dean mewls softly around the flesh in his mouth, his hand circling what he has yet to reach, coaxing his Angel further into experiencing pleasure at his hand – if Dean continues to do this, Michael promises salvation for Ruby, and for himself.

Every touch, every drive of Michael's hips inside of his body, every taste of semen and sweat he gets, he gets a little closer to absolving his family's sins. Dean truly believes this, believes it when Michael tells him this, and so he doesn't fight when Michael's cock, engorged with blood and burning hot inside of Dean's mouth, thrusts a little deeper than he's used to, hitting the back of Dean's throat and then a little further until the younger boy gags, tears welling up in his grass-colored eyes and making them shine even more brightly.

Michael comes with a low groan into Dean's mouth, pulling out almost all of the way until just the head is wrapped in Dean's kiss-swollen, reddened lips. The taste of Michael's seed on his tongue is like a benediction to Dean and he moans quietly, sucking at Michael's cock and milking him for every last drop. Then, the older teen's soft flesh falls from his mouth and Michael pulls him back to his feet.

Dean goes, swaying slightly from the head rush, his body greedily inhaling oxygen so that he can get his heart rate back down to normal. Michael holds him steady as Dean presses his forehead against the older teen's shoulder, his fingers weakly clutching at the teen's loose-fitting shirt as he gets his breath back.

He feels Michael's lips press against his neck, and lifts his head to meet Michael, but the Angel turns him away. "No, Dean," he murmurs, his thumb gently pressing against Dean's jaw so the younger teen's head returns to resting on his shoulder. "Not right now."

Dean makes a soft sound of distress, knowing it's because he still has Michael's taste on his tongue, and works to swallow, to rid himself of it and take Michael's purity into his body, so that the Angel can share more with him. He pulls himself more tightly to Michael, the tension only leaving his shoulders when Michael's arm wraps around his waist, one hand lightly resting at the small of his back.

"Can Ruby stay?" Dean asks, his voice low and hesitant – he knows, even limited as he is, Michael would be able to make life a living hell for not only Dean, but Ruby and Sam too if he decided that he didn't want her around anymore. Especially with Ruby joining them all in school now – Michael has graduated but now works as a part-time Religious Education tutor, part time Phys-Ed, two classes that Ruby will have to take in her first and second year and that Dean won't be able to protect her for.

He hears Michael sigh heavily and leans back, looking up with earnest eyes. "Please, Michael – I'll do anything you ask of me. I won't question anymore, or argue. I just want to show you how good she is." He bites his lower lip, the dull throb enhanced by the pressure of his own teeth for a moment, before he blinks, casting his eyes down and submissively away from Michael's when the older teen stares him down. "Please."

The older teen hums again, his nails digging into Dean's shoulders as he turns him, pushing down on the center of Dean's back so the younger boy goes, bending gracefully over the altar, the edge jutting harshly against his hipbones. Michael's fingers feel like they're burning when they dip under Dean's t- and over-shirt, guitar-calloused fingers skating over bare, warm skin. Dean shivers, reaching forward and wrapping his fingers over the opposite edge of the altar, bracing himself with his legs spread as he bows his head, resting his forehead against the cool cloth covering the altar so that he doesn't have to stare at the cross, and Mary and Jesus gazing back down at him.

"Sing that song you wrote for me," Michael demands, his nimble, knowing touch gradually dipping lower, across the scar on Dean's lower back from where a beam had fallen on him when he was four years old, in a house fire that had almost ripped his mother and little brother from him. "I want to hear you."

Dean gasps, hips jolting, pleasure lighting up inside of his body, warm like the first flow of alcohol or a drag of a cigarette, that Michael would ask him to sing for the Angel – that an _Angel_, with possibly the most beautiful voice Dean's ever heard, would find pleasure in his song…

_"Forgive me now, 'cause I have been…unfaithful…"_ Dean's breath hitches when Michael shoves his jeans and underwear down, baring his too-warm skin to the relatively cool air in the Chapel. It's so quiet aside from their muted breaths, harsh pants against skin and altar as Michael's fingers retrace the lines of Dean's body that he knows so well, and Dean trembles and bends his body in worship to the Angel. _"Don't ask me why 'cause I don't know…"_

He gasps again, losing his train of thought when Michael presses one spit-slick finger into him, shoving deep without any warning. Dean's body tightens around the intrusion, his shoulders tensing up, fingers gripping harsh enough for his nails to dig into the cloth and leave small indents behind.

"More, Dean," Michael whispers, pressing teeth into Dean's lower back and eliciting a whine out of the boy, as he shoves deeper with a second finger.

_"So many times I've tried, but was unable," _a pause, a hitch of breath, a tightening of Dean's velvety inner walls around Michael's fingers, "_this heart belongs to you alone_." Michael smiles in victory, reaching up to fist his hand in Dean's collar, pulling back and withdrawing his fingers in an almost practiced move. Dean chokes briefly when Michael arches his back, jerks his hips forward and sinks the first slow inch into Dean's tight, burning-hot body. _"Now I'm in a…secret place, alone in your embrace…" _He cries out, pitching forward again when Michael thrusts, hands scrabbling at the altar cloth and mussing the sheet in his desperate bid for purchase, as Michael's hands land on his hips and he uses the hold to sink more deeply into Dean's willing body. _"Where all my wrongs have been erased, you have forgiven."_

"Michael -." Dean cries out, body seizing as Michael thrusts a little more deeply, his revived cock sliding deeply into Dean's sensitive body. Michael shudders, still over-sensitive from his recent orgasm, and the tight, needy clench of Dean's body is threatening to send him over the edge again already. "Michael, please -."

"The bridge, Dean," Michael demands harshly, fingers digging more tightly, palming the spurs of Dean's hipbones. "Keep going for me, baby, almost there."

"I…" Dean whimpers, shoulders pulling up tight, hips driving back onto Michael's forward thrusts, needing more of that inside of him, needing more force, to milk the Angel's purity and keep his little sister safe for another couple of days. _"I get down on my knees; feel your love wash over me." _Michael growls, moving one hand up to his shoulder, pulling him back, making his body arch to the Angel._ "T…There will never be another; you're the only one forever. And you know I'm yours alone."_

"That's it," Michael whispers, slamming into Dean one more time and stilling as he comes. Dean whines, his body clenching with a flutter around Michael as the older teen empties inside of Dean, but he doesn't come – can't, won't soil such a holy place with his own seed. He will have to wait, until Michael drives him home, and maybe the Angel will let him come in his car, sucking him down between those full, perfect lips and into his wet, warm mouth, or Dean will have to wait for a shower and his own hand to take the edge off. Maybe he'll be forced to walk home. He knows he is not welcome to soil Michael's gift with his own release, and so he breathes, fingers flexing, stretching his body under Michael's hands, and waits for his guardian Angel to finish.

Michael pulls out after several moments with a sigh, and Dean trembles minutely under his touch when he pulls Dean's jeans and underwear back up, fingers sluggish with orgasm refastening Dean's jeans and pulling his shirt back down so he at least looks like a presentable human being.

After Michael tucks himself back in, zipping his jeans back up, he tugs on Dean's shoulder and turns the younger boy around. Dean's eyes are glazed over and unfocused with unsatisfied lust, his muscles trembling and jumping under Michael's hands, and the teen pulls him close, pressing a chaste, light kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth.

"Go home, Dean," Michael whispers, running a hand through Dean's sweat-damp hair. "I shall see you Thursday."

* * *

><p>Dean makes it home after he collects himself – his house isn't actually that far from the church, but his mother disapproves of Ruby walking alone and Dean had had to bring both his and Sam's guitars with him. Alone, with his own instrument and backpack, he makes the twenty-minute trek back to his house. The walk has managed to calm his arousal down to a dull, background throb, but the walk had also encouraged the sweat already marring his brow to increase, so he drops his stuff by the door and quickly runs upstairs, claiming the shower as his own for the next few minutes. The water is a little cooler than he'd like it – Sam must have taken the rest of the hot water, the giant girl – but it does the job of getting him clean. He gets off quickly and without ceremony, pushing two fingers into his still-loose hole and feeling Michael's come in there. He closes his eyes, tilting his head back as the water rushes down his body, cleansing him just as surely as Michael had, blessing his family for another few days from Ruby's 'taint'. He doesn't think Ruby is evil – her parents were. That doesn't mean she is.<p>

When he has finished, he shoves at the shower handle until the water stops, the constant 'drip, drip' reminding him to tell Dad that he still needs to fix that, and he quickly towels off. It's late afternoon now. Cas should be online.

He and Dean have been conversing for several months – Dean had uploaded a crappy version of one of his first songs onto Youtube and had piqued the man's attention. At least, Dean assumes he's a man – he keeps talking about recording companies and has a lot of (mostly) helpful criticism for Dean's music, so the teen can only assume he's some kind of record dealer, looking out for new sounds. It's flattering, and the man himself is charming and, hey, it's not like having such a contact could be a _bad_ thing, when and if Dean ever tries to launch himself into the music business for real.

Charming might be a stretch, actually, when Dean thinks about it, dressing in a t-shirt and jeans and firing up his computer. He's actually kind of an ass sometimes, but he's an interesting one. Seems he knows a little bit of something about everything – he introduced Dean to so many things in the short time they've known each other. Dean enjoys talking to him.

Cas is online when Dean signs onto MSN Messenger, and he's already smiling as he types his greeting;

**Highway to Hell: **Hey, Cas.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Hello, Dean.  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>You listen to the song yet?  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>I have. It's interesting. Who's the girl?  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Little adopted sister, Ruby. Tryin to get her to come out of her shell and everything and she seemed like the perfect person to sing this song with me and Sam.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>This song is about her? Has to do with her on a personal level?  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Yeah, essentially.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Ah. I suppose that explains why she sounded close to tears throughout the entire thing. Her voice was a little weak – perhaps try and encourage her to sing more loudly. She does have a nice voice though – full of potential, I should think.  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>So you like her?  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>On some level, yes. Not on others. I understand that it's a personal song, but I really don't hear it, coming from you. Her, yes, she's got a lot of emotion in her voice but that makes her uncontrolled. She should either refine her voice to your level or you should come down to hers.

Dean frowns at that. Like mentioned – Cas is kind of an ass most of the time.

**Highway to Hell: **You don't think we should sing together? She has an awesome voice – better than mine, at least.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Clearer, yes. I am merely suggesting that she practice a little more. It sounds too raw and untried for you to have sent me this version. However, the addition of Ruby into the song has given you an original element to it. This is good – I had feared, after your last two, that you were beginning to fall into a pattern. She adds a little…something. With more work this could be a whole new level, Dean. You should be proud.

And Dean's smile widens a little – maybe he is blushing, what does it matter what some random guy on the internet thought of him? Screw it. He sighs, rubbing over his face with one hand, and then types back;

**Highway to Hell: **So was this some really roundabout way of saying you liked it?  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>In so many words? Sure.  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Eesh, Cas, sometimes I swear you TRY and make me run in circles to figure out what you're saying.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Without people like me, Dean, people like you would get very bored very quickly. A straightforward talker is only nice when it's to do with sex and business. Everything else is too confrontational, they say.

Dean laughs at that, rolling his eyes though he knows Cas can't see him. They talk about many things after that – Ruby finally coming to school with Sam and Dean, Cas' new move and how they're now in the same time zone – Dean doesn't know where Cas had lived before, but he would go to bed several hours before Dean so Dean assumes he used to live much further East. Cas leaves him with a request that Dean finishes another song within a couple of weeks – Cas wants to hear emotion, now. Ruby's voice has intrigued him and he wants to hear Dean try and achieve that same raw-refined sound. How in the world he's meant to do that, Dean has no idea, but it's Cas, so he's gotta try.

* * *

><p>"Castiel!" The teen jumps when he hears his father's loud call echo through the house, accompanied with a door slamming overly violently shut.<p>

"Shit," he mutters, hurriedly swiping his headphones from his ears and unplugging them, muting his computer as he quickly slides off his bed. He closes the lid quickly, ending any more conversation with Dean very abruptly – though it's not something he hasn't needed to do before – and runs over to his wardrobe, yanking out the floorboard and shoving his laptop, charger and headphones underneath it. He can hear his father's heavy footsteps thunking up the stairs, hear his name being called again and again, and he swears once more, shoving the floorboard back into place, closing his wardrobe doors, and straightens up, brushing himself down.

Once he's sure he looks presentable – hoodie up tight against his neck to hide the marks, hair hurriedly combed through with his fingers to make a slightly more presentable look out of his usual unruly, bed-mussed mess, a couple deep breaths taken to calm himself down – he goes to his door, fingers trembling slightly around the door handle, but when he opens the door and steps out into the hall, no fear or dread shows on his face.

He's a better actor than that.

Castiel looks over to the top of the stairs in time for his father to reach the top step. The way their house is angled, he sees the back of the man before his father sees him, and it's enough time to pull his bedroom door fully closed, with a final 'snick', and lean against it.

"Yeah?" he asks when the man turns around. "What d'you need?"

Castiel has time, as his father approaches him, to gauge the man's mood. Castiel inherited his eye color from his mother, the deep, bright blue shining out beneath a fringe of black hair, but he knows when people see him and his father, they see people who are almost twins. Sure, his father is bigger – more muscle on him from working pretty much any and every factory or security job he can get – but they have the same jaw, the same face. Castiel's features are a little more delicate, his stature shorter, his body thinner, but he knows he may very well be looking into a mirror one day and find his father's face staring back at him.

He dreads that day as much as he looks forward to May 20th.

Dark brown eyes watch him as the man approaches, unusually sharp and sober, and Castiel straightens, realizing that he might actually be talking to his _dad_ – not the drunk who knocks on his bedroom door almost every night. He bites his lip, folding his arms across his chest in defense, fingernails digging into the soft, fleecy material of his hoodie.

"School starts in a coupl'a days," his father says, the slur of a Boston accent that Castiel thinks he'll never be rid of in his voice. He cocks his head to one side, staring down the several inches' height difference they have to his son's face. "Wanted to make sure you had everything you needed – if not, I'm about to head out to the stretch so…"

"I have almost everything," Castiel says after a moment's thought, biting his lip again with his eyes flashing downwards. "Um…maybe a new calculator – mine's pretty much busted after Bal got to it." There's a flash of mirth in his eyes, remembering his oldest and pretty much only childhood friend. They'd left Bal behind in the move.

His mild nostalgia passes just as swiftly as it had come, when he looks back up into his father's eyes again, finding a mirroring, fond smile on his face. "Maybe some more pens and stuff too. Just…you know, school stuff."

"School stuff," his father repeats, nodding slightly, lips pursed in thought. Then, he smiles, and reaches forward to gently muss Castiel's hair. The teen smiles at him, shoving him away halfheartedly, and bids his father a safe drive when the man turns back around to go downstairs. As soon as he hears the door close, his smile falls and he takes a deep breath, willing his heart rate to return to normal.

"Too fucking close," he mutters to himself – shouldn't have had the headphones in. He would have heard the piece of shit car coming a mile away if he hadn't been listening to Dean's music. He shoves at his bedroom door with a low, self-frustrated growl, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Don't fuckin' slip up like that again, you hear me?"

He doesn't know who he's talking to, he realizes as he pulls up short in the middle of his small room. He casts his eyes to the window – he has managed, so far, to retrieve the hammer from his father's tool box and undo the nails holding half of the boards on the window. His fingers are sore and reddened from blood, shed when he had tried to yank the boards off by hand and earned himself several splinters in his nails and palms. However, he's managed to loosen them enough that at least some natural light peaks through now, and a few more tugs of the hammer should release the rest. He'll store them all in his wardrobe when he's finished.

At a loss of anything else to do, Castiel unpacks. Four boxes. That's all he has to his name but it's all he needs, plus the small suitcase that he'd packed in case the movers lost their stuff en-route – he's not paranoid, he's prepared.

The first box, when opened, reveals school books and other non-fiction. Castiel's not much for the trips into the fanciful; what point is there in getting invested in the emotions of other characters, when he barely has enough time and patience for real people? Besides, characters seem so…one-dimensional to him at the best of times. The only piece of fiction he owns are copies of texts that he'd had to read for English class, and even then most of them are covered on the inside in his untidy scrawl, black ink pointing and dissecting each individual flaw in plot, character, or logic.

Not to say Castiel lacks imagination or the ability to appreciate a good piece of work. He just doesn't find that work in literature – he prefers music. Music, like art, like words, is mechanical; there are patterns, emotional swells accompanying each different cadence and chord progression. It's all emotional manipulation but Castiel finds a three minute song a damn sight better than a fifty-thousand word novel.

Maybe that's just him, though.

Castiel presses his lips together, sifting through his old textbooks and creating a pile of those he won't need anymore, those that are from last year or the year before. He finds his notebooks – some of them barely touched – and creates another pile with those. There is one, dog-eared and red, right at the bottom of the box, and he pauses over it, his fingers curling just slightly over the edges of the box. He stares at the unoffending little notebook for a moment, the 'five star' logo peering back at him from underneath a mass of scrawl, scratches and dust, before, with shaking fingers, he reaches down and hooks his finger in the spiral spine, and lifts it out.

It's light and thin, many pages ripped out so the original hundred is down to perhaps thirty. He sits back on his heels, staring down at the thing and, after another long moment, puts it in the 'keep' pile. After another second he rearranges the pile so that it's right in the middle, covered but not flattened and stifled.

He'll need it one day.

The second box is full of clothes, which he pulls out and sets into the wardrobe, hanging everything up on thin metal wires because he still doesn't have a set of drawers. His underwear and socks stay in the box and he shoves it into one corner. He thinks, with a bitter kind of smile and a small snort into dust-mote-ridden air, that he may as well get rid of all his underwear because it's not like he's needed them for the past few years.

He knows the humor would fall flat and stale on outside ears, and the knowledge makes him sober up as soon as the box is settled in place. The third is also packed with clothes and books, and he unpacks those the same way.

The fourth one, he leaves unopened. It's not worth it yet.

* * *

><p>That evening brings a lot of laughter in the Winchester household – it's Dean's turn to help Mom in the kitchen, and while Dean's not exactly a bad cook, he is a messy one. He's the kind of person to leave things half-finished because he can come back to them later, without any kind of process or time-keeping in mind. Still, the cottage pie and Caesar salad come out quickly and smelling delicious, filling the house with the scent of meat, potatoes and vegetables.<p>

"Food!" he yells up the stairs, carrying out the large bowl of salad to the dining table, his other hand cradling his mother's favorite placemats and cutlery to his chest. He sets the bowl down and lays out the table like his mother always insists on; forks to the left, knives to the right, spoons on top and glasses at the knife-spoon corner – before he heads back into the kitchen to help his mother with the salad dressing and the cottage pie.

Sam comes thundering down the stairs, almost colliding with their father as he emerges out of his study. John laughs, catching Sam by the head and steering him back on course when the teen had been threatening to careen right into the front door.

"Easy now, Sammy," he says, laughing and walking over to Mary, giving her a kiss on the cheek and taking the pie from her hands to set it on the table himself. Sam sticks his tongue out at his father's back before he heads into the kitchen to grab three Cokes, and then takes his place at the table, opposite Ruby, setting the other two drinks down for her and Dean, who sits at his father's right-hand side, opposite his mother.

"It smells _so_ good," he groans, the sound damn near pornographic as Mary, John and Dean take their seats, and there is a laugh shared by the family until they realize that Ruby is not with them.

"She came home with you, didn't she, Sam?" Mary asks, a small wrinkle marring her brow as she looks up and over her youngest son's head, through the large door and towards the staircase as though expecting the little girl to just appear. "Where'd she go?"

"Music room, I think," Sam says, worrying his lower lip in concern and then pushing himself to his feet, mirroring Dean, who had already been getting up. "We'll go find her."

"Hurry up, boys, before it gets cold," John says, opening his can of beer and pouring the glass, and the two nod, mirroring 'Yes, Sir's falling from their mouths as they hurry out of the room and up the stairs.

The music room used to be the attic, and now it is the home base for everything even remotely related to music in the Winchester household – the attic is large, covering the main pair of the house, and renovated to look like a modern loft, with wooden floors and sloping ceilings devoid of cobwebs. John had removed the pull-down stairs and added a staircase at the end of the second floor hall so that things like pianos and guitars and amps wouldn't have to risk the treacherous journey up the ladder and could be carried properly, so that there was less chance of anyone getting injured.

The attic is also completely soundproof.

As soon as Dean opens the door to the music room, the soft click-tap-ring of a piano reaches them, and he smiles as he and Sam walk up the few stairs to the attic. Immediately, as Sam shuts the door behind them, they are enveloped in the warmth of the loft and in Ruby's music, a soft tune being played out by her quick, nimble fingers.

Before Ruby had come to live with them, the piano had been virtually untouched except for the few instances when Gabriel came over – she had, however, immediately fallen in love with their beaten-up straight-back, which is the most hideous color Dean thinks he's ever seen, and had taken up lessons almost immediately. Sam and Dean are no strangers to finding her up here, wringing the prettiest melodies out of the old, weedy-sounding instrument.

She's humming something as well, and looks up when Dean and Sam enter, the soft 'snick' and the creaking of the steps alerting her to their presence, but she doesn't stop playing. "Hey, guys," she says, smiling a little at them, and then turns back to the piano, her right hand reaching out to tap out a high note before coming back to the center for the main melody. "Dinner time already?"

"We were just coming to get you," Sam says, walking over and flopping himself down on the floor next to her, and Dean smirks when he sees that, even with the difference of the piano bench, Sam's head is just about level with the piano. Kid's a fuckin' weed. "What'cha playin'?"

She shrugs. "Just somethin'," she mutters in reply, her fingers stilling on the keys for a second before she removes them, letting them die away with a sigh. "Michael doesn't like me."

Dean shoots a look over her head to Sam, seeing his little brother's brow furrow in concern, and Dean kneels down, crouching on the balls of his feet and bracing one hand against the end of the piano bench, despite the uncomfortable shot of pain it shoots around his ass and thighs. "Why do you think that?" he asks, cocking his head to one side, feigning ignorance.

Ruby gives his look, then rolls her mud-brown eyes. "C'mon, Dean, I'm not an idiot," she mumbles. "He looked like he wanted me to burst into flame or something." She bites her lip, turning back to the piano, fingers nervously tapping on the keys, light enough that no sound is played. "Did I do something wrong? I don't want him to hate me."

"He doesn't hate you," Sam says, quick to take up the slack in the conversation when Dean can only guiltily bite his lip and avert his eyes – he hopes, after today, that Michael will see that he treats Ruby with a little more civility, or Dean will just have to work harder, offer more. He's sure he can do it – anything to make his little sister happy and feel loved. "He just doesn't know how to handle you. I'm pretty sure he's estrogen-deprived." He wrinkles his nose.

Dean snorts at the same time Ruby covers her mouth, stifling a giggle. "What?"

"Well," Sam shrugs, "all he's got is brothers and, I mean, none of them are dating any girls that I know of. And their mother's not really around, or their dad. And Michael's dating you." He gestures to Dean, who blushes slightly and looks to the piano keys. "It's not like he's got a plethora of girls just hanging around. Probably wouldn't know what a vagina was if he fell balls deep -."

"Sam!" Dean leans forward, swatting the back of his brother's head, hard enough to hurt and severely mess up his hair – which would probably be more annoying to Sam, the girl – and grins at the satisfying yelp he receives for it. "Language. Don't let momma hear you talkin' like that."

"I was just _sayin'_," Sam replies defensively, pouting as he rubs the back of his head, and then gets to his feet. "It'll be okay, Rubles," he says, smiling and holding out his hand for Ruby to take, and she does, rising from the piano and gently resettling the lid over the keys. "He'll warm up to ya, or Dean'll just have to get down on his knees a little more often."

"Sam, I mean it!" Dean growls, half embarrassed, half annoyed at his brother's too-accurate description towards him. Maybe he isn't being as subtle as he'd though about who wears the pants in their relationship. Not that he minds taking it for Michael, because the dude's a badass and well worth Dean's while to bend over for, but it's the _principle_ of the thing – he's meant to be the awesome, kick-ass older brother, not the submissive twink.

They all thunder back downstairs, Dean smiling in victory when his parents look up and see Ruby trailing along behind them. "There you are," Mary says, reaching out to settle a hand through Ruby's hair when her adoptive daughter sits down next to her, the boys reseating themselves in their places.

"Let's eat!" Sam says, rubbing his hands together eagerly and reaching for the large spoon half-dug into the cottage pie, but Mary swats his hand with a look.

"Grace first," she reminds them, and Sam rolls his eyes, settling back with a small huff, but still holds his hands out, taking Ruby's in one and Dean's in the other as the family join their hands around the table. "John," Mary prompts.

They all bow their heads, eyes falling closed as John waits until the family settles. "Dear Lord," he says, voice low and deep as the rest of them fall silent, Mary's and Dean's hands tightening a little around their respective partners as John says Grace. "Thank you for our family, for this lovely meal my wife and son have prepared, and thank you so much for the blessings you have bestowed on each and every one of us. Amen."

"Amen," they chorus, sitting back, and Dean lets out a breath, squeezing his father and brother's hand once before sitting back in his seat.

"_Now_?" Sam gripes, impatient as always, and Dean laughs, recovering and reaching for Sam's plate, already grabbing the spoon with the other.

"Yeah, yeah, sasquatch, I gotcha," he teases gently, scooping out a hearty portion of pie onto Sam's plate, with an equally large serving of salad to match – Sam actually _likes_ salad, what the hell – before setting his plate down and reaching for Ruby's.

"That house a few doors down from us finally got bought," Mary says as Dean busies himself ladling out servings for everyone and Sam and Ruby tuck into their meals. "The boarded up one that we would have bought if this one hadn't come on the market. You remember, John?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, I do," John replies, nodding and accepting his plate from his son with another small smile. "Thanks, Dean. It smells really good."

Dean flushes in embarrassed pleasure at that, ducking his head. "No problem, Dad."

"Anyway," Mary mutters impatiently, her hand fluttering over John's arm to regain his attention, "some people just bought it. I saw the moving vans yesterday morning. A father and his boy, about your age, Dean, I think. Single father, too, from the looks of it."

Her voice grows sad at that, just for a moment, and John squeezes her hand just softly before she brightens again. "You already plannin' flower baskets and welcome cards?" he teases gently, knowing his wife's penchant for meeting and greeting practically every new neighbor that comes around.

"It's the least we could do," Mary replies a little defensively, though there's a small smile curving her mouth and it makes the children smirk as well, also knowing John's attitude towards going out of the way to welcome new neighbors – they are few and far between, so it's not like it's a constant event or welcome party, but still. "Imagine, just two men in a house like that, without a wife or mother or anyone to keep them company. And the boy coming here without any friends. Must be lonely."

"You have no idea whether there's a woman in there or not," John reminds her, amusement lacing his voice. "I swear, Mary, you're just like a mother hen sometimes."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she quips, finally picking up her fork and starting to eat.

There are a few moments of silence. "We might see them at church," Dean suggests, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. "Might be religious folks an' all that. Or I'm sure Sam, Ruby and me'll see him at school."

"Sam, Ruby and _I – _ow!" Sam grumbles, rubbing his sore, throbbing arm.

"When school's started, I'll talk right then," Dean snaps to him, smirking a little at Sam's pout, and then, for good measure and because he needs to reaffirm Sam's place as the bratty little brother, he reaches over to muss Sam's hair. That'll put him back into 'big brother' position like nobody's business.

John chuckles, gently nudging his knee to Dean's leg to tell him to stop, and the family goes back to eating for a few more moments. "You looking forward to school, Ruby?" John asks after another second, lifting his napkin to wipe a small piece of pie from his beard.

The girl flushes bright red, as she always does when addressed directly at the table – Dean doesn't think she'll ever get used to actually being _talked_ to. "Um…" She fidgets nervously, biting her lip and digging her nail into the soft fabric napkin. "Yeah. I mean, I am excited. And nervous. And…" She hesitates once again. "I was thinking I'd try out for the school play." Her eyes flash over to Dean's for a moment and he smiles at her. "But only if Dean and Sam will too."

Immediately Dean chuckles, followed quickly by Sam as the younger boy starts coughing on the salad in his mouth, hurriedly lifting his napkin to his mouth to cover the sound while Dean beats at his back – maybe a little too hard, but who's taking notes?

"Um…I don't know," Sam murmurs, face going bright red as he struggles to get his breath back. "I think it's going to be, like, one of the newer ones. _Wicked_ or something. That's a little out of my league." He gestures vaguely above his head.

"How do you know that?" Dean asks, handing Sam his Coke to try and wash down whatever bits of food are still stuck in his throat.

"Heard from Gabe who heard it from Pam," Sam answers, like that puts everything to rest, and it kind of does – Pamela's so far up the Principle's ass that she kind of knows everything about everything going on in the school. And she's Zen's BFF, so she would already know everything and most likely, already know who is going to be cast, since Zen thinks most auditions are kind of bogus and basically, if he picks you, you have to do it.

It has been working pretty well so far. Zen is kind of crazy though.

"I don't know _Wicked_," Dean says thoughtfully, returning to his food.

Sam gapes at him. "You don't know…?" He shakes his head, eyes wide in disbelief. "How can you _not_ know? 'Defying Gravity'? Like, the Oz as it should have been? _The whole story from the witch's point of view?_"

"Dude, your gay is showing," Dean snaps, amused at Sam's complete shock over his total lack of knowledge over everything glitzy and musical. Just because he likes taking it up the ass does _not_ mean he knows every Broadway show by heart, or even by name. Sam just glares at him and Dean smirks, counting it as a win, and goes back to eating.

"So, Dean?" Ruby's voice startles him out of his thoughts. "Will you audition with me? You sing really well and, well, you kind of already know the teachers and everything…"

Dean thinks about it for a moment, looking into his sister's hopeful eyes. Then, he smiles. "Sure thing, Rubles," he says, raising his fork in a makeshift toast. "Hell, you're practically a shoe-in for a part. I know Zen'll love you. And maybe I'll get an extra or something." He shrugs.

"You'd be perfect for a munchkin," Sam snickers, laughing harder when Dean elbows him.

Bitch.

"Not everyone can be a Gigantor like you," he mutters.

"Boys," comes Mary's warning voice before Sam can retort, and Dean counts that as a win too, because technically he had the last word. The family returns to eating, more laughter and casual banter shared between them as the conversation steers back to the new family in town, upcoming church functions, and how Dean and Sam's songs are coming along.

Castiel hates it when his father starts early.

The slow, unsteady thud-thud-thudding of his footsteps as he stumble-trips down the hallway. How he keeps managing to _not_ kill himself on the stairs, Castiel will never know. He opens his eyes quickly – he has been a hair-trigger sleeper ever since it became just the two of them, and he sits up in bed, holding his breath while he listens to his father's footsteps coming closer.

It's barely light outside. Maybe he hasn't even gone to bed yet.

Castiel rises, pulling a t-shirt over his head and slipping his pajama pants a little higher on his hips, not that it'll do much good if his father is in _that_ kind of a mood. Usually the morning is just a blowjob. If morning incest is ever usual.

There is another heavy thud when Castiel's father lands against the door, giant hand fumbling with the handle, and Castiel winces when he hears a loud, frustrated growl, before the door finally swings open, his father's heavy body stumbling inside.

He hurries forward to catch him, hands flattening out over his shoulders to steady the man. His eyes are wild, dark brown flashing in alcohol-fueled anger and lust and the man growls, straightening up and fisting a hand in Castiel's hair. The grip is tight and it hurts like a bitch but Castiel forces his face to remain impassive, stares up into his father's eyes with no fear even though his heart is thudding a mile a minute, stuck in his throat.

Then, his father shoves him away. "On your fucking knees, boy," he snaps, thick and clumsy fingers fumbling at his belt and the jean zip and button underneath, and Castiel shivers, eyes closing for the briefest second as he sinks slowly, practiced, graceful, to his knees. The hard, cold floor of his bedroom is like a shock to him when he kneels, but he knows he has to get used to it because this is not going to be quick.

His father rarely is.

"Come on," he demands, brown eyes flashing in malice as he finally gets his cock out, the flesh thick and hard and already drooling precome, and he fists it in a sweat-damp hand, sliding his hand up once to produce more precome and slick his thumb with it, guiding it back down. "Get to it."

"Yes, James," Castiel replies, crawling forward to kneel between his father's legs. At his height, it's perfect for him to lean forward and cradle the flushed, red head of his father's cock in the bow of his lips, and he looks up, knowing his bright, sky-blue eyes are making him look more like his mother through the haze of lust and booze permeating his father's brain.

It is only at times like this when he will stomach saying his father's name.

He opens his mouth, palms flattening over his father's thighs as he takes the head between his lips, tongue curling, cradling the head and flattening over the small bundle of nerves just underneath. Already his father is shuddering, eyes half-lidded, hand moving to Castiel's hair to fist tight enough that it earns a soft whimper from the teenager. Castiel closes his eyes and leans forward to take him deeper.

_Just a few more months._

He won't remember this after he passes out and wakes up again. Castiel's father never does – and if he does, it doesn't stop him, so it's not like it changes anything for Castiel. The teen swallows when he gets halfway down his father's cock, feeling the mushroom head hitting the back of his throat, and his father pushes forward, forcing him to swallow past his gag reflex and take him all. It makes a small amount of moisture gather in the corner of Castiel's eyes but he deals with it, blinks it away, nostrils flared to inhale as much air as he can when his throat is clogged.

It's not like he's a stranger to this.

He hums, sealing his lips tight around his father's cock, tongue working to stroke up and down the thick, blood-swollen vein, knowing all the tricks to bring his father to orgasm as quickly as possible. Still, even with all his tricks, his jaw is cramping and his mouth is going dry by the time his father begins to shake with the first dregs of orgasm. Castiel tilts his head, rearing back so just the head is in his mouth, and sucks with all his might.

The first bitter touch of his father's seed on his tongue always gets him. It feels like, maybe, he can pretend until that first drop hits him – then is when he realizes, when it really slams into him hard, that this is his _father_, that he's sucking his father's _cock_. It makes it just that much harder to swallow.

Honestly, he kind of prefers when his father fucks him. At least he doesn't have to look the bastard in the face, knows his father can't see his. His fingers tighten in his father's thighs, holding the man up while he empties himself into Castiel's mouth with a low groan, the tugs in his hair matching the rhythm of the squirts in his mouth until his head is aching and it hurts to swallow any more.

Finally, his father pulls away and Castiel collapses onto his hands and knees with a gasp. "Good boy," he growls, leaning down and cupping Castiel's chin, tight enough to force him up onto his knees again. His father smirks, petting down the side of Castiel's face. "Even better than your mother did it."

It makes the teenager want to spit the lingering semen still sitting, heady and rancid, in the back of his throat, but he swallows and forces himself not to rise, not to respond to his father's blatant goading. It makes the smirk on the older man's face grow wider. "Like mother, like son, I suppose."

He's calling Castiel a whore – him and his mother. Castiel knows this, in the back of his mind, and he knows that this man wants to see the words hurt. They don't – not really. It's more about survival, of course, than anything else, but Castiel is a good actor. His eyes flash brightly with the tears and he takes in a deep breath, averting his eyes, ducking his head down and away so that the tight clench of his father's fingers dig into his jowls painfully hard.

The man chuckles and lets him go. "That's better," he says, before he stands upright and leaves Castiel to remain kneeling. His knees ache from the wooden floor and, when Castiel digs his nails into the slight grooves between the laminates, he can peel back a few splinters and knows if he's not careful he could get them embedded in his palms or his sensitive feet when he wakes up one morning, if he doesn't mind his step or take care of the problem.

It occurs to Castiel, then, that they are still in his room, and he closes his eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Damn it," he whispers, wiping at his mouth with the back of his forearm and pushing himself to his feet. His father is standing in the middle of the room, looking towards the half-boarded window, and Castiel thanks his own logic that he left his computer in the wardrobe cubby hole, 'cause who knows what would happen should his father find it?

The floorboards creak when the man takes a step forward, his body still swaying in a drunken stupor and made worse by his orgasm, and Castiel turns around, rolling so that he's sitting, leaning back so his splinter-marred fingernails dig into the crappy laminate flooring, and he watches with baited breath as his father approaches his half-unboarded window, brow furrowed and eyes dilated against the bright mid-afternoon sunlight.

Castiel jumps, startled, when the doorbell rings, just then. The sound is loud and raucous, the thing obviously unused to being pressed, and he bites his lip, shoulders tense when his father whirls around and walks unsteadily out of his bedroom. Castiel pushes himself to his feet and hurries along behind.

It's around eleven in the morning right now, he notices as he passes the one _nice_ piece of furniture they own – a large grandfather clock that sits at the opposite end of the hall from his father's bedroom. He guesses it had taken a couple of hours to get his father to come, and he swallows – he's losing his edge. Used to be able to make the bastard pass out in less than twenty minutes.

"You get it," his father says, disregarding the stairs entirely and waving a disgusted hand in the front door's direction. "I'm going to sleep."

_Yeah, you do that_, Castiel thinks with no small amount of venom, as he does an about-face and hurries to his room, swapping his pajama pants for jeans and sliding a too-large hoodie over his head. A quick glance at himself in the bathroom mirror shows that, aside from the bags under his eyes and his sex-mussed hair, he looks fairly presentable, and it's not like they'll draw any conclusions from that alone.

Hell, knowing his luck, it'll just be the cable guy or something.

He runs downstairs, not wanting the bell to ring a second time and wake his father up, and hurries to the door.

Castiel stops outside the door, seeing two vague silhouettes on the other side, and takes a moment to compose himself. Then, his hand reaches forward, fingers curling loosely around the cheap plastic doorknob, and he opens the door, and his gaze locks with the most intense, vivid pair of green eyes he thinks he's ever seen in his life.

The boy – Castiel calls him a boy because there is a youth and innocence and _prettiness _about his features that can't lend him to anything else – is slightly taller than him, hair that is more dirty than blonde cropped short to his head except for the top, where it has been gelled into a scruffy, just-rolled-out-of-being-fucked kind of look. He has strong, striking features, his lips full and just pink enough to look like he's been kissed recently without making him appear too feminine. His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow, and the bare skin of his arms is stretched tight over just the right amount of muscle. Castiel lets his gaze travel downwards, to the jeans slung low on his hips and baring just the tiniest bit of skin and a happy trail between the jeans and the kid's black wife beater, to where his jeans are clinging to the slightly outward curve of his bowlegs.

He swallows, his mouth suddenly gone dry when his eyes travel up, back to the kid's face, to find that he's blushing a little now, a light, pretty stain on the rise of his cheekbones, and dipping his eyes submissively, coyly, white teeth sinking into the full flesh of his lower lip.

_Ah,_ Castiel thinks, cocking his head to one side; _that's why it's so red._

It's then that his attention is drawn by the woman standing at the boy's side. He assumes that she's the boy's mother, simply because they share the same feminine, innocent prettiness. Her blonde hair falls in soft, almost fake-looking waves behind her shoulders, though Castiel thinks that from the way her eyes crinkle with crow's feet at the corners and there's a touch of grey in her hair now, she probably wouldn't waste time in such a beauty ritual as that. There's a natural, contented age about her – something that puts him at ease, makes him open the door a little wider, rest his weight on one foot instead of the balls of both, ready to bolt.

"Hello, there," she says, in the voice of all mothers when confronted with new children. Castiel's eyes drift down to her hands – she's carrying a large basket of what looks like blueberry muffins, and unbidden Castiel licks his lips, realizing he hadn't eaten much of anything in the past day or so – Dad kept forgetting to go grocery shopping. "My name's Mary, and this is my son, Dean – we're a few doors' down from you and we wanted to be the first to bid you welcome to the neighborhood."

He takes the proffered baked goods, still a little stunned, and looks up at Mary, then Dean. He should probably say something. "Thanks," he settles on, because it's polite and pretty much all he can think to say at that moment.

"Is your father home?" Mary asks, her brow furrowed very slightly in concern, as though a teenager Castiel's age shouldn't be left home alone. Even as she speaks, a slender, pale hand comes out to rest on Dean's shoulder as she peers into the house over Castiel's shoulder. "We were hoping to invite you both over to dinner tonight."

Castiel coughs slightly, the snarky reply on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back – she's just trying to be nice. "He's sleeping," he says, truthfully. "Jetlag."

Which, again, isn't necessarily a lie. It's probably why his father started so early this morning. Castiel's throat hurts, and he swallows, rubbing slightly. Mary's eyes, naturally, zero in on the movement.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asks, immediately reaching forward and pressing the back of her hand against Castiel's forehead. "You don't seem to have a fever…come on, let's get inside and I'll make some soup." Without waiting for Castiel's permission, she takes the muffin basket from his hands and shoulders her way in, kitten heels clacking on the laminate floor as she heads towards the kitchen. Castiel watches her go, more bemused than anything else – he supposes she might just be that kind of woman.

"Don't mind my mom," Dean says suddenly, drawing Castiel's attention again, and _Christ_, the boy is beautiful. He finds himself thinking of the other Dean he knows – the one with the skill at guitar and a voice that just…reaches Castiel, somehow. He could spend forever listening to Dean's music, sometimes.

The boy gives a one-shouldered shrug, and then cocks his head to one side. "Can I come in?" he asks, at least showing more courtesy than his mother, and Castiel ducks his head, standing back from the door and pulling it further open so that Dean can enter. "Thanks." He comes in, looking around the rather unimpressive and still depressingly bare foyer, and gives a low whistle. "S'bigger than our house."

"Not like we need the space," Castiel replies, closing the door gently behind him but making no move to go into the kitchen. Dean's still standing pretty close, and he smells like…like many things. The smell of leather and car and oil – a distinct kind of ruggedness that makes Castiel wonder just what Dean does in his spare time, makes him wonder if Dean has a job – maybe a mechanic, there's a fuckton of those around – and if he likes cars or if he's just doing it for the extra money. He wonders if Dean can sing, what he sounds like when he screams…

He coughs, cutting his own thoughts off, and carefully controls his blush when Dean turns back to look at him. There's a refreshing kind of affection and innocence in the boy's eyes, something Castiel knows he lost from his own a long time ago. Strange though it is, it makes him hate Dean, just a little – he clearly has a caring mother and must come from a loving home, and Castiel hates him; his gut burns with jealousy.

"What's your name?" Dean asks after a moment, where they just stare at each with only Mary's gentle humming from the kitchen to break the silence.

Castiel licks his lips, his arms folding across his chest, and he digs his nails into the bare skin of his arms. "James," he says, even though the name tastes like bile on his tongue – he doesn't want this kid – this perfect, happy _boy_ – to know his real name. Only certain people get to know it anyway.

Dean blinks, accepting it. "Can I call you Jimmy?"

"Why would you call me Jimmy?" Castiel retorts with a small frown, voice a little tighter than he'd meant it to be. His nails dig a little deeper into his skin.

Dean just shrugs, the naïve bastard. "I give all my friends nicknames," he says by way of explanation, and the fact that he can just _presume_ to include Castiel in his circle of friends kind of annoys the older teen – he'd been willing to accept Mary's pushiness because she was a mother and it was understandable, but in a teenage boy it's downright intolerable and Castiel does not like it.

"You think I want or need your friendship?" Castiel snaps, not raising his voice but putting enough venom in it that Dean pauses.

However, surprising Castiel, it doesn't seem to phase the teen all that much; he shoots Castiel a heart-warming, adorable smile, and against his will Castiel finds his flash of anger cooling down already in the force of that smile; "Look, man, if I don't give you a nickname first, someone else will. You might end up with something like 'J-dawg' or 'Jee-dizzle' or something. Jimmy, I think, is a fair compromise."

Castiel blinks. Dean's trying to win him over. Trying to placate a perfectly irrational outburst on Castiel's part when he technically hasn't done anything wrong.

No one is that nice.

"Jimmy will do," he concedes, earning the brightest smile he thinks he's ever seen from anyone in his life, and the way it makes Dean's eyes glow with warmth, dimples standing out in his cheeks and small crinkles just starting around his eyes…it's adorable. It's so fucking _innocent._

Castiel kind of wants to punch him as much as he wants to smile back.

"Boys! Come on in!" Mary calls, as though she was in her own home and Castiel was the visitor. It makes the teen feel a little off balance, more of a stranger in his own home than he feels already, and he tightens the clutch of his own arms across his chest, nails digging in slightly more, shoulders hunched, as he follows Dean towards his mother.

The kitchen smells amazing, the scent of fresh potato and lentil soup filling the air and Castiel greedily inhales. He hasn't had a good home cooked meal since the move – he hasn't quite figured out how the temperamental electric stove works, and his father, when he doesn't drink his calories, usually eats at the job or gets take-out.

"So, you joining Lawrence High this year?" Dean asks, taking a spot at one of the bar stools framing the kitchen island and waiting patiently while Mary ladles a hearty serving of soup into a bowl – Castiel has no idea where she got the ingredients from or how she managed to find the dishes and silverware so quickly, and he's not sure what to make of the fact that Mary and Dean seem so comfortable just insinuating themselves so casually into someone's home – maybe that's just Kansas lifestyle here.

Castiel presses his lips together and takes another bar stool, two down from Dean so he's not sitting right next to the attractive teenager, and can still see the door and the other two occupants of the room from his spot. "Yeah," he says, eyes moving to his own bowl when Mary puts one in front of him, and he sends her a grateful smile, because the food does smell pretty fucking fantastic and he's not going to complain, really, if it ends up tasting as good as it smells. "First day's tomorrow, right?"

Dean nods, rolling his eyes a little as he shovels the first spoonful of soup into his mouth. "Yeah. Man, I don't think I can get used to getting up before the clock hits double digits. 'S just not right."

Despite himself, Castiel finds a small smile coming to his face. He distracts himself by spooning a small amount of soup onto his soup and taking a sip of it. It tastes salty, sharp, and very good. He gives an appreciative sound. "This is excellent," he says, feeling a little off-balance again – he doesn't want to address Mary by her first name because that's rude, but then again, he doesn't know her last. "Mrs…?" He trails off, letting her fill in the blanks.

"Please," she says, smiling and putting a hand to her chest, "just call me Mary. It's very nice to meet you…?" Castiel finds himself smiling a little more when she uses his same trick, and instead looks down to take another bite of soup.

"James. Jimmy. Whichever," Dean supplies for him with a one-shouldered shrug.

"Well, James, Jimmy, or Whichever," Mary says with a smile, "I was hoping your father and you would be willing to grace us with your company tonight. It's a potluck at the church and it's a great way to meet the community when you're new in town."

Castiel tenses a little, looking up. "My family's not religious," he says shortly, pressing his lips together.

Mary just blinks at him before she shrugs. "You don't have to be religious to belong somewhere," is all she says with the same one-shouldered shrug Dean has – he must have picked it up from her – before she absently stirs what remains of the soup and then turns off the stove. "I'm going to put this in some Tupperware for your father and he can have some, too."

"Thank you," Castiel says, making a move to get off the bar stool, "but I can do it. You sit." He doesn't feel like she should nanny him, or go more out of her way than she already has – reaching out and feeding him, he feels very much like an ungrateful homeless person or something.

But she swats his hands away with her free hand. "Nonsense, Jimmy, you just sit down with Dean, here, and I'll sort this out. Don't want your soup getting cold."

Before Castiel reminds her that there are such things as microwaves and, despite his apparent uselessness with the stove, he at least knows how to work _that_, but Mary turns away from him, somehow managing to pick the precise cupboard where the Tupperware had been unpacked into, and starts humming a song under her breath. Castiel vaguely recognizes it.

"Anyway," Dean's voice comes, snapping Castiel out of his thoughts and turning his attention back to the younger teen, "I was gonna ask if you wanted a ride."

"A…ride?" Castiel repeats, cocking his head to one side.

He can't help smirking a little when Dean immediately blushes, the already light stain on his cheeks turning darker and taking up more of his face, as he smiles a little and ducks his head down. Some of his fringe falls into his face and he bites his lower lip, looking so fucking adorable that Castiel can't help but think that he would look great in a twink porn shooting or something – because Castiel is at that stage in life where a lot of things come back to porn.

"I meant a lift. To school, you know…It's a ways away and when it gets winter here it's pretty cold so…" He's blushing harder, fidgeting under Castiel's unblinking gaze and, for a moment, Castiel lets himself have this – have the little power thrill of someone getting so flustered because of him, before he chuckles and looks away.

"Thank you for the offer, Dean," he says, taking another bite of soup. It really is good – he'll have to ask Mary for the recipe. "It's very kind of you."

Dean can hear the rejection in his words, surely, and the teen frowns a little, before shrugging his shoulders. "Gotta help the environment and all that jazz," he says. "I'm already driving my little brother and sister to the same place so thought I'd offer."

It's cute, how aloof he's pretending to be, and Castiel perks up at the mention of _other_ passengers in the car besides himself – he's always been a little wary of cars, never quite trusted anyone controlling whether he lives or dies like that in such an accident-magnet. He sighs, and relents, because the walk would take him maybe forty-five minutes on a good day and he has no idea what Kansas weather turns into in the winter-time. "Sure, Dean, I'd appreciate a _lift_."

Dean blushes again, but his smile makes Castiel smile back, so he figures that the comment is okay. Castiel finds himself relaxing, just a little – he hasn't felt this, well, _safe_ since they were back in Boston and he'd had Bal by his side. Even with his father snoring upstairs, Castiel feels…pretty damn good, all things considered. The soup had managed to soothe his throat and he feels a lot better with the warm food filling up his belly.

He thinks, maybe, barring any unforeseen circumstances, he might go to this 'potluck'. Meet the neighbors.

Get a feel for the place where he's going to be spending his last few months of Hell.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Dean! That new song was great – one of yours?"<p>

Dean turns around, a wide grin spreading out on his face when he sees Jo, and embraces her in a tight hug. "Yeah, Ruby and I wrote it together. You liked it?" he asks, smiling and walking over with her to the large table heavily laden with giant piles of food – a potluck is held once a month by the church community and, religious or not, practically everyone has made it to at least one. They feed an army all by themselves and have enough leftovers to donate a week's worth to the various homeless shelters and soup kitchens around.

"It was so emotional, I loved it," she replies, smiling and tossing some of her blonde hair away from her face as she reaches forward to grab a large spoonful of mashed potatoes, dumping it onto her plate. Dean grins when some of her hair falls forward anyway – she's got more mane than a lion – and he pushes it back for her to avoid it trailing through the gravy in front of the potatoes. She shoots him a grateful smile and then proceeds to cover the potatoes in the gravy, licking her thumb when some spills over. "I think it's great that she can…talk about stuff like that, to you guys."

Dean's smile softens, sobering up as he gives a slight nod. "When I found out about the kind of stuff she'd been through…I mean, I'm amazed she is as happy as she is, that she pulled through." He takes a deep breath, distracting himself with slices of honey-roast ham. "She's very strong."

"Your whole family is," Jo replies just as softly, her eyes large and warm as she looks at Dean's face. The teen gives a one-shouldered shrug.

"I guess." He clears his throat, straightening up and making room for more people to get at the food, and Jo follows him to one of the small, comfortable, well-worn green couches in the room. He sits on the larger cushion while she perches on the arm, smiling down at him and playing with her food with her fork. "I'm just glad she sang it with me. Meant more, I think."

"Fit the sermon today really well, too," Jo adds, nodding. "About redemption and support and stuff."

"Yeah." Dean swallows, feeling a small pang of something lie regret in his chest – he knows that the teen hadn't shown any interest in joining them for church, but he kind of wishes that Jimmy and his father had given the place a chance. He can't fight the feeling that Jimmy needs support and friendship as well – his friends would say that's the Mary in him talking, but he can't help it; he sees an injured or closed-off soul and he just wants to _help_.

Out of the crowd emerges Ruby and Sam, and the girl smiles a little, blushing as she takes her seat at Dean's side, flattening herself to his flank with her own pile of food and Sam sprawls, all gangly-limbed and weedy, over the other cushion. His plate's full of salad and bread and Dean wrinkles his nose, rolling his eyes with a snort.

"Sammy, if you don't start eating real food I'm gonna start force-feedin' it to ya while you sleep," he teases, reaching across Ruby's shoulders to flick his younger brother's shaggy head.

Sam makes an indignant sound, his retort cut off by the fact that his mouth is still full of salad, and settles for glaring instead, back at Dean. Ruby giggles, curling her legs up to her chest and continues to eat, shoveling a forkful of ham into her mouth. Dean smiles, feeling proud that Ruby is taking after his carnivore side and not Sam's weird rabbit food fetish.

He's distracted by Jo giving a low wolf whistle. "Look alive, Winchester, there's new meat," she says with a sly kind of smile, and Dean looks up at her, wondering what she could be talking about – and to remind her that she better not let her momma be sayin' that sort of thing – before his eyes follow her line of sight, and he takes in a short, sharp breath.

Dean had thought that perhaps it was just the fact that Jimmy was a fresh face that had made him so attractive to Dean. Looking at him now, though, there's no doubt that he's an attractive man – and he is a man. He's got that kind of look about him, like he's been around the world and seen everything there is to see.

His eyes are the brightest, purest blue Dean thinks he has ever seen, and when coupled with his jet black hair and pale skin, he looks more exotic than any of the other 'brown eyes blonde hair green eyes brown hair' combos that are in this town so far. He's shorter than Dean and slender, built like a runner more than any contact-sport athlete, or the kind of guy that stays in front of his computer all day and _maybe_ gets all his exercise just from running away from bullies.

Except Dean doubts Jimmy's ever had a problem with that. He has a kind of 'No Shit' attitude about him that gets beaten out of you when you've got bullies on your back. Dean watches as the teenager enters through the small swinging door to the Pavilion, dark blue eyes casting around in a calm, short sort of survey of the room, like he's marking all the exits, taking note of all the faces. Dean tenses up a little when those too-blue eyes land on him, change in recognition, and Jimmy gives a short, sharp nod in his direction. It seems like he stares at Dean for a long time, giving that same kind of soul-deep once-over that Dean has come to expect even though he's only met the teenager one other time, and Dean shivers when those eyes drop from him, moving on towards the rest of the room.

Jo, of course, catches it. "Ooh, Dean, you interested in the boy next door?" she teases gently, resting her hand on Dean's hair and ruffling it slightly.

"Easy on the merchandise," he snaps, batting her hands away. Sam and Ruby, though, catch her words, and follow to where the two were staring, to where Jimmy has been joined by his father. Their eyes widen.

"That's the new neighbor?" Sam asks.

"He's the spitting image, isn't he?" Ruby notes, and Dean can't help but nod.

Jimmy and his father look the same. Like, almost clones of each other, with the same dark hair and pale skin and general build, though his father's a little taller, a little bigger and more muscled and, of course, older, though it's hard to tell from this far away how much older he is. The older man's eyes, though, are not the same bright blue as his son's, and Dean finds himself wondering for the first time just where Jimmy's mother is, and what she might have looked like.

"He lives down the road from you guys?" Jo asks, looking back towards Sam, who nods. She gives another low whistle. "Damn. I'm jealous," she says, pouting a little.

Dean chuckles at her. "Easy, sweetheart, you don't even know his name," he says, tugging on a strand of her hair and she huffs, getting to her feet and hands her empty plate to Dean, who takes it.

"Whatever. He's probably more your type anyway," she says with a shrug, "all broody and shit." Dean laughs, rolling his eyes at Jo, and moves to stand so that she can have his place when he throws away the paper plates, which he is pretty damn sure was her intention anyway – and sure enough she slides right into her spot when he gets out of the way – "Seriously, Dean, you should hit that. I saw the way he looked at you."

"You're imaginin' things," Dean says with another roll of his eyes, though he can't stop the blush rising on his cheeks. "'Sides, I'm with Michael, Jo, you know that."

Jo gives a snort, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, but the sooner you guys go _off_ again the sooner you can get _on_ pretty-blue-eyes over there," she points out with an arched eyebrow, making Dean blush a little more. There's a pause. "Oh, shit."

Dean turns around, his eyes immediately going over to where Jimmy and his father are because he knows, instinctively, that Jo is still talking about them. His eyes widen when, speak of the Devil, he sees _Michael_ talking to Jimmy. Jimmy and Michael, _alone_, because Jimmy's father has gone off somewhere and Michael isn't exactly friendly at the best of times.

Jo suddenly stands, taking the plates from Dean. "Go," she urges, nudging him with her elbow, "play White Knight."

* * *

><p>Castiel tenses up when he feels the sharp, light blue eyes land on him, coming from a teenager, taller and older than him, from the other side of the room. He's surrounded by a group of people who kind of look like him – a shorter teen with the same honey-blonde hair, a taller one with the same bright blue eyes. A family.<p>

He sees the middle one, the oldest, he guesses, from the way the others look up to him, give a shake of his head, lips curling up in a light sneer, before possibly the fakest, most plastic smile is plastered across his face and he's walking over to Castiel and his father.

"Heads up," Castiel warns his father, turning slightly away from the older man to address the approaching teenager.

He matches the fake curl of lips with one of his own when the teen stops in front of them. "Hey there, you must be the new family in town," he says, cocking his head to one side and holding his hand out to shake. Castiel's father obliges and the teen lets his hand drop without even acknowledging Castiel. "My name's Michael Santos – my dad's one of the ministers here."

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Castiel's father says, nodding once in greeting. He digs his fingers into his front pockets and Castiel ducks his head too, feeling his father's reticence himself – he's suddenly very glad that he didn't try and go off on his own. Already he feels like he wants to punch Michael.

There's a reassuring hand on his shoulder – a sober hand, not meant to hurt or demean – and it gives a soft squeeze. "I'm gonna go grab some food and mingle a bit," Castiel father says, pressing his lips together, and the teen nods. Michael's light, sky-blue eyes feel like a predator's on their faces. "You go…socialize, Cas, I'll be back."

"'Cas'?" Michael asks, his lips curling up slightly in a smirk when Castiel's father retreats, leaving the two teens in relative solitude, and Castiel raises his chin, defiant, and answers with a smirk of his own.

"Middle name," he says, eyes flashing. "Slavic. From Casimir. The destroyer." He sticks his hand out sharply, ready to shake. "James," he says.

Michael's smile becomes oily. "Nice to meet you," he says, shaking Castiel's hand a little too hard. "So, _Cas_," he says with a bite to his voice, and Castiel just feels his false smile grow wider, "where's your mother? Got any siblings?"

"I'm a bastard child, Michael," Castiel replies strongly – he has no illusions about either of his parents; they were young, and stupid, but his mother was smart enough to get out of dodge before his father could propose and make the whole damn thing legal. Castiel doesn't hate her for leaving him behind – if that is what she did, his father doesn't really talk about it – he would have probably done the same thing. A baby slows down a young single woman with no steady income and nowhere to go. "And no, but I see there's quite a Santos clan over there." He jerks his head, eyes flashing briefly to the other teenagers, who seems to have formed a group with three other teenagers on an ugly green couch – the one Dean had previously been sitting on. He's nowhere to be found.

Michael's smile turns genuine, just for a second, full of pride when he looks back over towards his brothers, before his gaze turns back to Castiel and his entire expression goes oily again. "My little brothers, Gabriel and Lucifer."

Castiel raises a brow at the names. "Angels," he says, shifting his weight to one foot as he crosses his arms over his chest, nails biting into the soft fabric of his hoodie, and Michael nods, smirking a little to himself.

"Archangels," he corrects.

"Before one of them fell," Castiel says, cocking his head to one side, "Lucifer was called Sammael. If you want to go by Jewish tradition. Although…" He trails off, cocking his head the other way. "Jews have no concept of the Devil, I believe."

Michael's eyes flashed. "We're not Jewish," is all he says in reply, shrugging slightly, and Castiel just smiles at him. "Didn't see you in church today," he says, changing the subject.

"Oh, my family's not religious," Castiel says with a quirk of his lips. "Obviously."

"Obviously," Michael repeats, nodding to himself.

There is another very long, very awkward pause, both teens just staring each other down – Castiel isn't quite sure why, but Michael is very hostile towards him. Granted, it could just be that Castiel's feel the hostility right back so no big, but it seems like it comes down to more than just a religious predisposition or sense of superiority.

The answer comes when they're interrupted.

"Hey, guys," Dean says, coming up behind Michael and putting a hand on the older teen's shoulders, pushing him back slightly and breaking the staring match between the two. He smiles over at Castiel, situating himself between the two teens equally, obviously not trying to show some kind of loyalty towards either of them. Castiel finds his efforts endearing. "Thought you weren't gonna show up, man, s'good to see you again."

"Dean," Castiel concedes, a little surprised when Dean chooses to wrap him up into a casual one-armed hug, that ends almost as quickly as it had began but still manages to give Castiel that off-balance thing again. He supposes he should get used to that from Dean. "Well, your mother mentioned all the food and, well." He shrugs, smiling slightly.

Dean laughs. "Yeah, there's enough to feed an army so…" He trails off, looking between Michael and Castiel. He looks like he's trying a little _too_ hard to be light about the conversation. "What're you guys talkin' about?"

"Just getting to know each other," Michael replies, voice smooth enough to remind Castiel of a snake in the garden and he finds that just a little bit ironic. Makes him smile. Then, Michael casually, without taking his eyes off Castiel, reaches out to wrap a hand around Dean's waist – the movement is slow enough to make sure Castiel knows exactly what he's doing, deliberate and meant to get a rise out of him, and Castiel realizes, then, what must have Michael so riled up against him.

He takes all his self control not to smirk when the older teen pulls Dean against him, ducking down and presses a harsh, dirty, claiming kiss to the boy's full, pink mouth. He makes it last just too long to be normal, long enough to let the sight sink in, and Castiel's eyes flash, knowing that Dean and Michael are obviously together, because Dean's not pushing Michael away in the slightest. In fact, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright with happiness when Michael pulls away, his hand flattened over the older teen's chest and fisted in his shirt.

"I'm gonna go see if my dad needs help with the Collection," Michael whispers into Dean's ear, his hand moving down to grab at Dean's ass through his jeans, hard enough to make the teen squeak and blush harder, before he walks away, leaving Dean and Castiel alone.

Castiel clears his throat after a moment, absently looking down and pretending to wipe some dust off his jeans. "Didn't know you were so kinky, Dean," he notes, making the teen whirl on him, his blush darkening further.

"What?"

"I think I got some splash-back when he peed all over you to mark his territory," Castiel says with a slight smirk, earning an even _darker_ blush from Dean, the teen fidgeting slightly with his emerald green button-down – must have dressed nice for church.

"Oh. Well, I mean…He…" Dean trails off, blushing again, looking down at his hands. "It's not like that." Castiel cocks his head to one side, shifting his weight to his other leg. "I mean…we've been going out for a while but he can't…keep an eye out on me or anything."

"You're saying 'attentive', I'm hearing 'stalker'," Castiel says dryly, shrugging a little.

Dean frowns a little. "It's not like that," he says, a little more sharply, and Castiel raises his hands, uncrossing his arms and holding his palms towards Dean in a gesture of surrender. He even goes so far to take a step back until he sees the tenseness in Dean's shoulders go away.

After another moment, the frown lifts from Dean's features as well, and Castiel likes that, for a reason he does not and cannot name. He changes the subject, less likely to get a personal rise out of Dean; "I thought religious people were meant to be against gays," he says instead, raising a brow.

Dean cocks his head to one side at Castiel, brow furrowing, though it's not anger this time that clouds his eyes and makes them darker, but confusion; "Have you heard of the story of King David and Jonathan?" he asks, and Castiel blinks, shaking his head. "You should read it – I mean, people are saying it was just 'platonic' love but, if you give bare your body and give your clothes to a man, if you tell him to hide because otherwise he'll die, if you cry for him and kiss him and 'love him as himself', then that's a soul-deep thing. That's not something anyone can ever be against."

"Soul mates?" Castiel asks in a derisive tone, shaking his head.

Dean looks down shyly, biting his lower lip. "If straight people can have them, why can't we?"

Castiel blinks at that, staring at Dean for a moment. It must click to Dean what he said before Castiel can make a comment, because he blushes harder and looks down at the cheap linoleum floor between their feet. "Not to say that you are 'cause I don't know and of course I would never assume that, but, I mean…I didn't meant it like that and -."

"I'll save you the aneurism, kid," Castiel replies with a wave of his hand, a rare grin coming to his face, wide enough to flash teeth. Bright, embarrassed eyes lock with his. "I am."

Dean licks his lips, nodding a little, and smiles to himself. "Okay. Yeah. I didn't want to make an assumption or -."

"Hey, Dean, you done flirtin' yet?" Sam chooses that moment to intervene, Ruby slung over his back because Sam's tall enough and she's slender enough that he can pretty much carry her everywhere despite the fact that she is fifteen years' old. He puts her down immediately and Dean flushes more, chuffing Sam on the back of the head for the comment.

"Go screw yourself, Sasquatch," he retorts.

"But I wanna meet the new guy!" Sam replies, fixing Dean with the biggest pair of puppy eyes he can muster, making the older teen roll his eyes.

"Jesus," he mutters, looking away for a moment, before straightening and slinging an arm over Sam's ridiculously high shoulder, forcing his little brother to duck down – an action that he of course over-dramatizes, crouching down way more than necessary. "Jimmy, this is my little brother Sam, and my little sister, Ruby." He gestures to each of them in turn.

There is something refreshing about Sam's wide, adorable smile – complete with dimples – and the almost shy way that Ruby won't meet his eyes but still holds her hand out to shake anyway. He smiles at both of them, shaking Sam's hand, and takes Ruby's to kiss the back of her slender fingers, earning a giggle and blush. "Nice to meet the pair of you," he says, noting Sam and how he is similar to Dean – Dean clearly takes after his mother more, Sam his father, although he has never met the man and he can see some features of Mary in the younger boy. Sam is clearly in the 'rebel against the haircut' phase, with his floppy, shoulder-length brown hair, and his clothes are getting a little small for him, so he is in the middle of a growth spurt. His already stands an inch above Dean and Castiel spares a moment to wonder how much taller he will grow.

Ruby, however, shares none of her features with either of them. Her nose is longer and less broad than theirs, her dark brown eyes and raven hair speaking of Hispanic descent. She is a good deal shorter than both of the boys and, while due for a growth spurt soon, is not likely to get higher than five-six. Her skin is darker than both Sam and Dean's.

And yet Dean calls her his sister.

Adopted.

"Nice to meet you, too, Jimmy," Sam says, grinning from ear to ear wide enough that Castiel wonders if his face might split in two – it's refreshing after seeing the cold, plastic smile of Michael Santos. Castiel thinks, for a passing moment, that maybe it's just the family – already Sam, Dean and Mary have made Castiel smile more in one day than he has in years. "You going to the high school this year or are you already graduated?"

Castiel smiles. "Yes, I'll be a senior. Last year."

"So…where'd you move from?"

"Sam," Dean warns, shooting his brother a look, but Castiel waves the warning away lightly.

"I don't mind answering," he says with a slight smile. He pauses, then, thinking up his back story – his father probably won't give anything away about the past, but Castiel doesn't want anyone knowing anything about him – if someone is curious enough, they can dig up things that are best left dead and buried. "My dad and I moved here from…Washington State," he says after a moment, nodding his head. "It's a lot warmer here."

Sam grins. "Yeah, I bet! And less rainy." Castiel smiles again, nodding and conceding the point. "But Washington's pretty cool, too, right? You miss it?"

Castiel gives a one-shouldered shrug, realizing too late that he is copying Dean and Mary's mannerisms, and folds his arms across his chest. "A little, I guess. I'm just kind of waiting to get out and be on my own. There's a good part about every place."

They all pause, nodding to themselves, before Ruby presses her lips together and looks up to Castiel's face. "Where's your mom?" she asks softly, and Dean and Sam tense up a moment, eyeing Castiel warily as though expecting him to explode at her.

And Castiel can understand that reaction – it just is not something you _ask_ people. But she's young and definitely not like Michael, and he sighs a little, shrugging once more. "No idea. My mom and dad weren't, ah, really together when I was born," he says with a slight smile, shrugging yet again. "Just one of those things, I suppose."

"I'm sorry," Ruby says, pressing her lips together again and looking up with dark, caring eyes. "My mom wasn't around much either. I was raised by my dad and…but then Mary and John adopted me and things have been great. Quantity isn't what matters in life."

For one brief, terrifying second, Castiel thinks she might see. Thinks she might smell the scent of his father's breath on his clothes or be able to sense the bruises under his t-shirt and on his thighs. Knows she must be able to _taste_ the flavor of semen in the air. But she's just a little girl – she cannot possibly know. She's just trying to console.

Castiel smiles down at her. "My father loves me very much," he whispers, the words tasting sour and bitter on his tongue. "I have all I need in life."

"I'm glad," she says, and then smiles, turning around to go get some more food from the large table, which is looking significantly less heavily laden now that everyone has started to eat their fill, and things are getting packed away.

Dean chuckles, a little nervously, rubbing his palm against a silver ring that is on the third finger of his right hand. Castiel hadn't noticed that before. He wonders if it's significant, before he catches himself, realizing that wanting to know someone's back story, getting interested, getting _attached_, just leads to bad things, and he forces himself to take a mental step back.

"Sorry about her," Dean says, pulling Castiel out of his thoughts, and the older teen smiles and shrugs.

"I get it," he replies, shifting his weight, and spies movement over Dean's shoulder. Michael's back and heading towards the two of them, a look of intent in his eyes that Castiel definitely recognizes – different eyes, different man, same Goddamn look. He takes another step back before looking back to Dean. "Lover boy's arrived," he says with a smirk. "I'll stay out of the splash zone this time."

Dean opens his mouth to reply, small frown furrowing his brow, but then Michael's arms are around him from behind, pulling him back to a firm, broad chest, and Dean turns his head, immediately relaxing and smiling when he sees that it is Michael holding him. The older teen smiles, pressing a kiss to Dean's cheek, and then Dean looks back to Castiel.

"I'll see you around," he says, recognizing Michael's hold and knowing that the older teen is about three seconds away from pulling him along by his hair. "Tomorrow morning, seven-thirty, you better be ready!"

Castiel smiles, nodding, before Dean is dragged away and he is left with Dean's little brother.

Sam's mouth is twisted slightly as he watches the two go. "I hope they don't go to the Impala," he says, nose wrinkling in disgust. Castiel has no idea what an 'Impala' is, but he guesses, in his head, some kind of hangout or club. Either way, it doesn't concern him what Dean and Michael do, or where they do it.

Or how often they do it.

Or how long they've been doing it for.

And _certainly_ not if he could do it better.

* * *

><p>It actually hurts when Michael turns Dean around, slamming him up against the side of the church's graveyard warehouse, the heavy iron studs of the door digging into his back hard enough to hurt. Dean moans softly in pain, the sound swallowed by Michael's demanding mouth, his fingers curling sharply in Dean's thighs as he lifts the teen up, making Dean wrap his legs around him.<p>

"Michael -." Whatever he is going to say is cut off when Michael fumbles for the thick iron ring that undoes the latch in the door, pushing it up and using their weights to shift the door open and let them inside. He slams Dean back against the door again, closing it firmly shut behind them.

The shed isn't large and is does not have a light, but there are windows with no curtains and they let in enough natural daylight that they can easily see where things are, like shovels and wheelbarrows and gravestones that have yet to be carved. The floor is cold and made of cement and it is here, in the open space, where Michael presses Dean down, forces the teen onto the hard, unforgiving ground, his mouth still pressing sharp kisses against Dean's lips and jaw and neck, his fingers blindly, savagely, tearing open his clothes and getting Dean naked as swiftly as possible.

"I don't like him," he mutters, laying a mark to Dean's collarbone as he shoves the legs of Dean's jeans and pants down far enough past his knees that he can reach between the teen's thighs, dry fingers prodding at Dean's hole and one finger dipping inside – they don't have lube so he will have to go slower and more gently than usual, but that won't stop him getting his point across. "He reeks of sin. Like Ruby does. I don't like him, Dean."

Dean gasps, arching his back as much as he can in the limited position, with Michael's knees on his clothes, hobbling him and restricting his movement, to try and get the older boy to go deeper inside of him. "Michael -." He's cut off by another demanding, savage kiss, this one tainted with the taste of blood and Dean wonders if it's Michael's or his own. His hands fist in the teen's honey-colored hair, moaning softly when a second finger joins the first, stretching him too much too fast. It hurts. He wants to tell his Angel to stop but he's not sure if he should.

Michael asks so little of him.

He does not want to cut Jimmy out of his life – he doesn't see evil in Jimmy, just as he doesn't in Ruby. But Michael…does not like him. Calls him sin. And Dean can't just _not_ talk to Jimmy but if Michael finds out then he'll be angry.

He will be very angry.

"I…" He trails off, swallowing when Michael adds another finger inside of him, and it really hurts now – it burns more than anything and Dean grits his teeth, pressing his soft groan into Michael's cheekbone and tries to breathe past the pain. "I don't know if -." He cries out, eyes clenching shut when Michael's fingers curl, scissor and stretch him further, a brutal jab to his prostate making lust rise up, hot and thick, inside of him. "I offered to give him rides to school and stuff. I can't just never talk to him again."

Michael pauses, then, for a moment, withdrawing and bracing himself up on one elbow so he can see Dean's face. "Do you want me to leave you, Dean?" he asks, cocking his head to one side, and Dean whines when his other hand withdraws as well, leaving Dean feeling empty and sore. "Have you outgrown me? Do you think you don't need my guidance and protection anymore?"

"…What?" Dean's eyes widen in horror, and he tries to sit up. Michael lets him, moving off his body to let the younger teen stand, and Dean manages to get to his knees, his jeans half-pulled up around his thighs. A look from Michael tells him to stay there. "No. Never. I…" He pauses, reaching forward, imploring. "Michael, no, I'd never want you to leave."

"Then why are you questioning me?" the older teen demands, whirling on Dean. He takes a step over, kneeling down in front of the other teenager, and takes Dean's face in his hands. "Didn't you promise not to question me?" he asks, voice turning gentle, adoring, his sky-blue eyes wide and full of love and affection. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Dean's mouth when the younger boy's eyes fall closed. "Why are you doing it now? What makes him so special?"

"I…" Dean can't finish the sentence – he can't, because he doesn't know how. Instead he swallows, fighting back the lump in his throat and the burn of tears behind his eyes. He takes Michael's wrists, fingers wrapping loosely around them, thumbs finding the bone, and leans forward to rest their foreheads together. "Please."

Michael sighs, softly, his warm breath washing over Dean's face. His thumbs brush over Dean's cheekbones and he leans in for another kiss, biting softly and tugging at Dean's lower lip to grant his access to the warm wetness of Dean's mouth. The younger teen makes a soft sound in his throat, moving his hands to Michael's soft hair, too short and nowhere near unkempt enough, and his fingers curl around the curve of the teen's skull, resting on the back of his neck.

Michael parts with a soft sigh, brushing a hand down the side of Dean's face. "I'll see you later, Dean," he says, and then gets to his feet.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers, looking down and feeling incredibly cold and alone without his Angel there to hold him, and Michael looks back over his shoulder at the teen, before he smiles and lets himself out of the shed. Within a moment Dean gathers himself, wiping the back of his hand across his face and pulling his jeans up, getting to his feet and heading out and back to the Pavilion.

He finds Sam and Ruby on the couch, talking quietly. Jimmy and his father are nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, guys," he says, looking around. "Mom and Dad about ready to go?"

"That was quick," Sam notes, standing up, and Dean swallows back the sharp feeling in his chest. He takes a breath, lets it out, and smirks in time for Sam to push his ridiculously floppy hair out of his eyes to watch Dean's face.

"I'm just that good, Sammy," he says, grinning, and wraps an arm around Sam's shoulder, hauling him to the kitchen where he finds his mom and dad helping to pack away everything for people to take home and washing the few actual dishes that had been used. He casually volunteers Sam to help do dishes and grins when his mother summons him for food-packing duty. If he slips a few mouthfuls of ham and potatoes and cheesecake while he does it, well, that's just perks of being the big brother who gets the better clean-up job.

* * *

><p>Castiel had long ago figured out the combination in the old-ass security lock his father had put on the garden shed. This is where he keeps all his expensive shit, and he's feeling in desperate need of a drink. He would just stay inside and down some of the cheaper booze that sits, unpacked and the first thing people notice in the dining room – hell, they haven't even really assembled the fucking bar cabinet, just the booze – but to do that he has to go down the squeaky, creaky stairs and he doesn't want to risk his father waking up.<p>

His hands are shaking and it is hard to breathe – the night is relatively warm, warmer than Boston nights in September anyway, but it is also pretty dark and he has to get up early tomorrow, and he's tired. His entire body aches.

He should have known better than to bring his father to a fucking church. Knew the bastard would hit the liquor extra heavy on their return. Castiel's father is more than just 'not religious' – he's pretty much so against religion as to openly reject any form of it. And that's when he's sober.

He hates Castiel. Hates the name, hates his son, hates the mother – Castiel knows this, presses his lips together when he thinks about the outright rage in his father's eyes when he'd summoned Castiel to his bedroom that night. It's almost one in the morning and they started at seven thirty. He remembers the touches, the bruises pressed into his skin with rough fingers and grabbing hands.

"Fuck," he mutters when his shaking hands let go of the damn lock, yet again – he's too messed up to see the numbers right and he can't remember how far he got or where it originally was so that he can reset it when he's done. "God fucking damn it!"

It hasn't affected him this badly in a while – not since they left Bal behind and Castiel had known there was no one to run to now. No one that he could stay with, that could shelter him when he just _couldn't_, on nights when he wanted to fall asleep and not have to listen for footsteps or fear for his safety, or feel a touch he didn't want and hear the harsh breaths being panted in his ear to accompany the rough, dirty pounding inside of his body.

Finally his fumbling hands manage to undo the lock, and the chains around the shed door fall loose and open. He breathes a sigh of relief, wiping the back of his grease-dirty hand across his eyes, and steps inside. It hurts to walk, hurts to really do anything and he _wants_, so badly, to feel the warmth of alcohol in his gut.

There are rows and rows of bottles, here – like if they were stacking up for nuclear winter or the zombie apocalypse or something and could survive on just booze. Castiel reaches for the first thing he finds – an unopened bottle of Jameson, the imported crap – and tips it up. It burns going down his throat but really, what else is new, and he drinks and drinks until he feels like he has to breathe. Coughing, muffling his noises with his hand, he blinks back the tears building up in his eyes and pins them shut to avoid them tearing over.

_Just a few more months_, he thinks to himself, finally pulling his hand away when he feels like he can breathe without choking. The alcohol has started to settle, warming up his chest and stomach, and he feels a little better. He hasn't eaten anything in a while so the alcohol is going straight to his head, but he can't find it in him to care.

It has been a while since Castiel has touched any booze. He tells himself that it's a slippery slope, that he doesn't want to become his father and he's a better person and he doesn't need it. On nights like this, though, all those reasons fly out of the window and he just needs it. Needs it because nothing else will give him even a small measure of happiness that the oblivion of drinking-induced unconsciousness will.

He takes another deep swallow of the whiskey, gasping at the burn, and then replaces the cap on the bottle. He can't drink it all, but in the morning before school he'll run it down the stairs and put it with the rest of the half-empty bottles. His dad will never know the difference.

"You're okay," he whispers to himself, padding back up to the house. His feet are bare, long legs of his pajama pants trailing in the dirt and grass as he carefully tries to avoid any stray sticks or rocks. He stumbles a little and hisses when he ends up almost collapsing on the back porch. "Get a fucking grip, man."

He manages to make it back to his room by climbing up the old fire-escape stairs that half-line the back of the house. They don't make as much noise and they are as far from his father's room as the house can be. From there, he manages to make it to his bedroom without disturbing the heavy snores coming from the half-open door.

He feels dirty; his feet are covered in God knows what and he can feel the sick, sticky crispness of come on his thighs and ass, saliva running down his back and God knows what else from lube and bites and whatever was on his father's hands when he first grabbed him. Castiel shudders, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair, a twist to his mouth. He'll wait a few more hours and then he'll be able to take a shower. His father is due for work early in the morning, before Castiel even needs to think about getting up for school.

School. Dean. He's getting a lift from Dean.

With alcohol easing his mind and knowing he won't be getting to sleep for at least another few minutes, Castiel allows himself to think of the younger man. Allows his mind to linger on the full, flush lips and the blushing cheeks in a way his eyes can't. Allows himself to remember the muscles of Dean's arms and admire the flatness of his stomach and the curve of his bow-legs, and lets himself think of those legs spreading, wrapping around him, those strong arms tight around his shoulders and those long, calloused fingers digging into his back.

The slow burn of arousal in Castiel makes his body twinge, muscles spasming and then protesting their earlier trial. As though his body is reminding him that what he wants, he can't have – Dean is in Lawrence, and when Castiel graduates he is going to leave this place and get as far away as possible. He will never see Dean or his family again and that is the way it should be – he will be the guy who forms no bonds with people because he will always have to leave them behind. Like Bal.

Like everyone.

Castiel sighs, laying down on his cot, and looks back towards his half-boarded window. Well, he's already dirty. He rises again, going over to the rotting pieces of wood, and pulls. Hard. Hard enough that, with a protesting groan and a soft creak, the wood comes free, and he snarls in victory. The second one comes off as well, and Castiel is getting splinters in his hands but he can't find it in himself to feel the sharp prick of the wood fighting back.

It is almost two in the morning when he finally clears his window and stores the planks of wood in one side of his wardrobe. The moon is full and bright, peering down at him with her cold, unfeeling white glow. For a long second, he stares back up at her, and then out towards the new angle of the street he can see.

From this side of the house, he can see the corner of his next-door neighbor, though most of it is hidden by the autumn-colored tree. He can see across the street if he leans out slightly, and two houses down on the opposite side of the street.

He wonders which one Dean lives in. And then he catches himself thinking that and turns away, shutting the window but still letting the light in. There are no curtains in his room yet and he knows he'll have to ask his sober dad to go get him some.

Exhausted, sore and dirty, Castiel finally collapses back on the cot. His hands throb and he knows the half-a-bottle of whiskey will bite him in the ass in the morning, but right now he just can't care. He dreams about bright green eyes and a smile that makes him want to smile back.

* * *

><p>There is one thing to say about the shower pressure in their house – it's a hell of a lot better than what they had back in Boston. The water is almost boiling hot and beats down on Castiel in a way that relaxes his tight muscles and washes away all the aches of yesterday night. He slicks back his hair, just letting the water wash over him for a long while as his skin turns pink and the mirror fogs up from the heat.<p>

He had dreamed about Dean last night. In a way that was _definitely_ not cool for someone who is not only taken, but completely off-limits regardless. Dean is a fucking choir boy, from a wholesome family and a _nice guy_ and Castiel is the drifter who takes it up the ass for his father and is going to get the hell out of dodge as soon as the calendar reads March 20th.

He licks his lips, squirting out a thick dollop of shampoo onto his palm before lathering it into his hair.

He's not even sure why Dean has managed to get to him so fast – he's barely known the kid a day. Except it feels a hell of a lot longer than that. And Dean…Dean makes him smile. If Castiel were sentimental like that, it would mean a lot.

But not only is Dean with Michael – a self-righteous ass if Castiel has ever met one – he also is young, a family man – will probably stay in this tiny town for the rest of his life and never want for anything. He'll own a mechanic shop with his brother and go to New York only to get a civil partnership with Michael, or settle down with some other nice young optimistic thing – not Castiel. Not that he cares, because he doesn't – unattached, uncaring, that's him.

The scent of the shampoo helps to center and steady his thoughts as Castiel quickly but thoroughly washes it from his hair, reaching for the body wash as well. He has bruises up his forearms and on the insides of his thighs, and although it's not quite cold enough to warrant a hoodie over the course of the day, he knows he will have no other choice. There is a dark hickey on his neck that nothing but a small, close hood will hide, and there is a friction burn on each of his forearms that he will have to hide.

It was easier to justify in Boston.

He scrubs hard at his skin, hissing a little as his splinter-marred fingers throb with every tight curl around the washcloth when he presses with almost vehement harshness at his stained thighs. One of these days maybe the son of a bitch will be courteous to use a fucking condom so Castiel doesn't have to deal with the clean-up later.

The very thought makes him laugh; a dark, bitter sound.

When he is finished, he shuts the water off and towels himself dry efficiently, trying not to think about going to school or what he is going to have to do to get to school. The thought that getting a lift with Dean makes him nervous would make him laugh – the very idea that he could be nervous about _anything_ anymore…Bal would be proud of him. Showing emotion and all that.

He rushes to his room and pulls on a clean pair of jeans and a thin t-shirt, his old grey Boston hoodie slipping on over that. The hoodie has been well-used, almost worn through and fraying at the sleeves so it won't be that warm should the Kansas sun come out and greet him.

He checks the large clock at the end of the hall – seven twenty. He has ten minutes. Castiel goes downstairs, searching in vain for any food that might not take _forever_ to make, and finds some leftovers of Mary's soup. The taste of it with the after burn of whiskey and the mint of his toothpaste is an odd combination but doesn't take away from the lovely flavors in the soup and he practically inhales it, wanting to be done by the time Dean arrives to pick him up.

God, he feels worse than a girl getting picked up for her first date. _Get a fucking grip, man._

When everything is done and the house is left in a semi-decent state – enough that he can come home and clean up before his father gets back without any trouble – he heads for the door, black satchel slung over one shoulder.

The door shuts behind him with an audible 'click', and when he turns around to lock it, he hears a loud engine rumbling his way. Instead of passing right on by, the engine just gets louder and comes to a stop what sounds like directly behind Castiel, the engine idling as the car is put into park.

He turns back around.

At the end of the very short driveway is a…a monster car. A real muscle 'I am a man who likes sex with women because my car is a woman and oil and leather and mustaches' kind of car. Dean is sitting in the front seat, looking his way, and gives a slight wave and a smile.

"You comin'?" he shouts over the idling of the engine, and Castiel just manages to snap himself out of the shock in time to walk up to the car and slide into the passenger seat. Sam and Ruby are in the back seat and give him welcoming smiles when he settles in.

"Nice car," he notes, leaning forward to brush a hand over her dash, and Dean grins. Castiel imagines he can _hear_ the boy preening. "What model is she?"

"'67 Chevy Impala," Dean answers proudly, and Castiel's eyes flash over to Sam when he remembers the younger brother's comment about the Impala. The car smells clean, feels warm and comfortable as he settles into the sun-warmed leather seats, curling his hoodie more tightly around himself. "Dad was gonna give me her for my eighteenth but then he got his truck so I got her early." Castiel can't help but smile at the outright pride in Dean's voice over this car – and really, she is a beautiful machine, all sleek cut lines and shiny paint job and smooth acceleration. It feels like riding on a gently rumbling cloud.

He hums gently in agreement, and Dean settles back down, seemingly content with not speaking while he drives. Castiel is grateful for that – it makes him feel like Dean is paying attention, won't let anyone in this car or the car itself get hurt by reckless driving – makes him relax into the seat and enjoy the scenery as it steadily scrolls past.

After a minute or so, Dean leans forward to flip the radio station on. It's a religious station – 'Easy Listening, For The Little Ears In The Back Seat' – but when the presenter's voice comes on, Castiel's brow furrows, because he recognizes it from the potluck yesterday.

"I've heard this woman before," he notes, frowning down at the radio as though it will give him the answers.

Dean smiles. "Jo Harvelle. She's my dad's friend's daughter – you may have seen her at the potluck. Tall, thin, blonde hair with her roots died. Pretty." Castiel just shrugs a shoulder – that can pretty much sum up anyone in this town. "Anyway, she kind of does the early morning local broadcast – the school announcements and stuff."

"I didn't know Lawrence was big enough for a radio station," Castiel says quietly, not sure if what he's just said will be taken offensively.

Dean just shrugs and laughs. It makes teeth flash in his smile, the long line of his throat exposed when he throws his head back. "Well, her brother Ash is a huge computer nerd – he can make anything into anything and I don't think anything is impossible for that guy. He hooked the school up and it's managed to do wonders for organizing events and getting the word out for little things that are happening around."

_"And that was the weather. Now we've got a couple songs lined up – the first by our own local band – 'Whispers in the Dark'…"_

Her voice fades out as a few melancholic piano notes begin to drift through on the radio. At once Dean's shoulders tense up slightly, a small furrow coming between his brows. Castiel cocks his head to one side, seeing the reaction, and turns his attention back to the song;

A voice he vaguely recognizes come over the soft piano; "_Despite the lies that you're makin', your love is mine for the takin'." _The voice is echoic, the sound of stilted drumming and palm muted strums coming up behind the voice. "_My love is just waitin' to turn your tears to roses."_

It hits him within the second part of the verse. "Is this Michael Santos?" he asks, looking over to Dean and then towards Sam and Ruby.

The guitar, the voice…it all sounds awfully, horribly familiar, and for one dreadful second Castiel's brain gives him an answer – that Michael might be the kid he's been talking to on the internet for so long, the one in Kansas with little siblings and had used his boyfriend's name as a pseudonym.

Sam nods, leaning forward and bracing his chin over his folded arms on the front seat. "Yeah. He occasionally writes songs for the band."

The guitar comes in, strong and almost startling after the relative silence of the first part; _"I will be the one that's gonna hold you, I will be the one that you run to. My love is a burnin', consumin' fire." _ The song sounds…violent, so dreadfully familiar also, in a way that most of 'Dean's songs are not. The words have a back-up harmony and Castiel thinks he might recognize that part too.

It's then that a voice sings the chorus – a different one. One that he _definitely_ knows. Knows because he listens to it late at night when he can't sleep, and sends to a man he doesn't know the last name of and knows will be able to take him to a record dealer when he gets out of town, ready to make his own way.

Dean.

_"No! You'll never be alone – when darkness comes I'll light the night with stars -." _Dean abruptly leans forward again, shutting the radio off and casting the car into silence. Sam, Ruby and Castiel all cast him worried looks – his shoulders are hunched slightly and he refuses steadfastly to look at either of them, an ugly, hurt expression on his face, as he licks his lips and takes a deep breath.

"I don't want to listen to Michael right now," he says, eyes flashing just briefly to see Castiel out of the corner of his eye. "We, ah, kind of had a fight. My fault. Just need to simmer a bit."

For a second, Dean's words don't sink in, because Castiel is still reeling – Dean is…is _Dean_. _The_ Dean – _his_ Dean. And those thoughts…those thoughts are bad. Wrong. Irresponsible. Castiel forces his face to remain impassive as he looks out of his window, towards the houses they're driving past, and doesn't think about it. Okay, so there is just another thing on the list of things that makes Dean totally unattainable. No big deal.

Then, what Dean's just said hits home. A fight. They had a fight…must have had it last night. After Castiel came in and ruffled some feathers because Michael sure as hell hadn't minded practically molesting Dean in full view of everyone _before_ their conversation. Maybe…maybe Michael had told Dean to stay away from him. Maybe Dean had refused.

_Stop it_, he thinks to himself, rolling his eyes at his own thoughts. It is stupid and conceited of him to think that a couple who have been together for long enough would fight about _anything _to do with him, when it could be something as mundane as…as something that people in relationships fight about.

Castiel has that going for him, he supposes. He and his father, fucked up though they are, never fight. About anything. Ever. It's…kind of refreshing to know that nothing else is absolutely perfect either.

"That's bull." Sam's words pull him out of his thoughts. The younger boy looks angry when he's staring at Dean, brows pulled together. "He has no right to get so Goddamn possessive of -."

"Sam, shut up," Dean warns, eyes flashing to the rear view mirror. They seem brighter than normal. He takes another deep breath and leans forward again, flipping on the radio just in time to be able to catch the tail end of the song that had started the drama in the first place.

Jo's cheery voice pipes in the few seconds between the songs; _"And that was Michael and Dean, as you all know – like I have to explain it! Later we have another one from Winchester and Co. – a new one, though not so new for those attending the service last night…starring Ruby, who I must say, has a voice like an Angel. We'll be playing that one at the start of lunch – don't you dare miss it!"_

A new one? Castiel quickly looks down at the radio station, memorizing the number, and makes a mental note to listen. Dean Winchester. He's sitting in a car with Dean Winchester – his Dean who he's been talking to for _months_, making his music good enough that people will want to listen to it, when the boy's been doing it on his own already. Or maybe he's using Castiel's tips and altered tracks and putting those up.

He doesn't know.

Dean, it seems, is a host of unanswered questions.


	2. Chapter 2

Lawrence High School is not impressive. Then again, it isn't meant to be. There's an air of practicality about it that Castiel can appreciate – sure, there's the banners supporting their sports team (Go Lions!) – and the kind of stereotypical gatherings of students, laughing and reuniting and everything else, but otherwise there is a definite air of 'Go in, learn, leave'. He kind of likes that.

Dean parks in the school parking lot, far away from the other cars and Castiel soon learns why – this space is actually closest to the school office, which is located pretty much as far from the main entrance of the school as one can get. He did this for Castiel's benefit, and as soon as the older boy realizes this, he shoots Dean a grateful smile and gets out of the car.

"Rubles is gonna have to go to the office, too," Dean explains, but there is a blush high on his cheeks and he's smiling, pleased that Castiel is pleased with him, and Castiel promises himself that he will make Dean smile more – the boy is beautiful when he's smiling.

But he won't get attached. Pure endorphin production. Biologically advantageous.

He follows Dean, Sam and Ruby into the main school building – they receive their fair share of curious looks and high fives as Dean or Sam recognizes someone from last year – and enters the main office. The room is moderately large, lined with cubby holes on one wall for teachers, and at the end of the room is a long desk. Behind the long receptionist-like desk in a woman with the same jet-black hair as Michael's, this time with sharp green eyes and a wide, almost predatory smile as her eyes flash to Dean, then Castiel, and settle on Dean again.

"Got some new meat for me, Winchester?" she asks with a smile, swirling around in her swivel chair to watch the older boy. Dean smiles, all charm now, and leans on the edge of the receptionist's desk.

He then turns back and claps a hand on Ruby's shoulder, then Castiel's. "Jimmy, Rubles, meet Pamela, the hottest psychic ever to walk the halls of Lawrence High."

"Oh, you sweet talker, you," Pamela replies with a grin.

"You take good care of 'em, now," Dean replies with a wink, straightening up and giving a gentle shove to Castiel, who takes his place at the front of the desk. Castiel fixes wide eyes on Dean, unable to tell how he is meant to handle this situation right now – it seems like there is some unspoken bet or competition going on and he isn't quite sure what he's meant to do, or what the stakes are, or how the game is played.

Who knew school could be so stressful?

"Alright, Ruby, we've already got your schedule and campus map around, though the place is pretty damn small so getting lost won't be easy," Pamela says, handing Ruby a few sheets of crisply flattened paper, that the young girl then takes and starts looking over. "And Jimmy…"

Castiel waits tensely as she flicks through the files, her brow furrowing when, as Castiel could have predicted, she doesn't find his name.

He looks over his shoulder and finds that Dean and Sam have left the office, and then turns back to her. "It'll be under Castiel," he tells the receptionist, earning a flash of calculating jade eyes. "Novak."

Pamela purses her lips and closes her filing cabinet, opening another. "Ah, here we are," she says, pulling a few sheets of paper out to match Ruby's and handing them to him. "There we are, Novak. Your first class is A.P. Chemistry with Doctor Singer, and then you have your media elective with Zen."

"'Zen'?" Castiel repeats, frowning in confusion. He takes a look at the teacher's name listed under the class, only to find that 'Zen' is, in fact, also typed there. "Is that his real name?"

Pamela raises a brow. "You really are new here," she mutters, and then shakes her head. Just then, the first bell rings. "Well, go on, get! Singer does not tolerate late people. Ruby, if you want, I can show you towards the music room."

The girl blushes slightly, biting her lower lip as she folds over her schedule to look at the school site map. "I think…I think I can find it from here. Thank you, Ms Barnes."

Pamela flashes them a charming smile and Castiel just manages to force a tight one back, as he and Ruby turn to leave the office. Ruby stops once they are outside and looks up at him with a thoughtful expression on her face. "Castiel?" she says. It's all she says, but he realizes – knows, with the same certainty he knows who Dean is – that she recognizes his name.

"Don't tell your brothers," is all he says in reply, before he turns left and heads towards where the map says the science block is. He manages to make it just in time for the second bell to ring and knows that Pamela's words should be taken to heart, because no sooner does he slide into the room at the last echo of the bell than Doctor Singer slams the door shut and turns to address the class.

Whatever Castiel had expected him to look like…this is not it. The man has a world weariness about him that does not come from hours and hours earning a PhD in a lab – his sun-weathered face and tattered ball cap and beer gut do not scream 'scientist' to Castiel. Though, he supposes, he doesn't really have any frame of reference for that.

Singer turns around when the door is shut and surveys the class with dark eyes, pressing his lips together in a way that makes his thick beard bunch up towards his face. "Alright, ya idjits," he begins, crossing the room to the white board. "You know me, I don't care what yer names are, show up on time, do well, and don't blow anythin' up. Got it?"

There are a few muffled 'Yes, Sir's and 'Yes, Doctor Singer's around the room, and Castiel takes a moment to see who his classmates are. They are all seated in three long rows of benches and he, being the last one to arrive, had had to settle with the middle row because all of the back seats were taken. Next to him in the middle, he recognizes Lucifer Santos. Next to him are two more that he doesn't recognize. In front of Castiel, the first bench is almost empty except for one slender redheaded girl who he sees has yet to look like she is paying any attention at all. She has a sketchbook in front of her and her left hand holds a pencil, and she is clearly enraptured in whatever she is drawing.

Castiel blinks when the teacher starts talking again. "We're gonna start with page two-oh-two. Period one elements. Bet you louts will just _love_ this. Now -." He turns back to the board, scrawling out the elements in Period One as they are in the Periodic table.

The hour goes by quickly, and Castiel takes back the entire first impression he had of Doctor Singer – the man is, quite clearly, a genius. Castiel's hand has never been so tired from taking so many notes. And his control of the room is something to be admired – even the kids in the back had been attentive and respectful towards him, even when his back had been turned to the class.

Very different from Boston.

The second class is his media elective with Zen. It says to go to the auditorium and, though Castiel thinks that may be a little weird, the teacher's name is _Zen_. He braces himself for what that might make this class be as he pushes open the wide double doors into the top of the auditorium.

The space is almost grave-quiet and completely muted from the outside. It feels like his head is being wrapped in warm cotton when Castiel steps inside and looks around. There are already a few students sitting and chatting at the front of the auditorium in the first few rows, and so he quickly walks down the left aisle to join them.

He stops when he hears a laugh he recognizes. Dean.

Of course.

He sighs, stepping down the last few steps and taking a seat on the third chair from the end of the second row, far away enough from the other students that he might not be noticed, but close enough that he isn't blatantly putting a barrier of space between them.

Sure enough, he is soon noticed. Dean walks over to him and plops himself down next to Castiel and, despite himself, the older teen flashes a welcoming smile Dean's way. "Hey, Jimmy," Dean says, throwing an arm around the back of Castiel's shoulders and slouching low in his seat, bracing one foot on the seat in front in a way that makes Castiel kind of want to scold him and bat his leg back down. However, the posture does make his jeans stretch tight across his legs, shows the flatness of his stomach and the muscles of his arms, so Castiel can't really complain too much. "Didn't know you were into drama."

"Had to do a media elective," the senior says in reply with a one-shouldered shrug. He pulls his satchel onto his lap and wraps his arms around it, nails digging into the frayed sleeves of his hoodie. It's a little too warm in the auditorium to justify wearing it but he can still get away with it, for now. Dean is like a furnace next to him and Castiel feels himself start to flush. "Aren't you still a junior? What are you doing here?"

Dean chuckles. "Me, Zen and Pam are like this," he says, holding up two of his laced fingers to show how close the three of them are, and Castiel rolls his eyes with a smirk. Of course.

"'Zen'?" Castiel asks again, cocking his head to one side in question.

Dean laughs. "Yeah, well, you'll see why once he starts getting stressed out. Everyone calls him Zen. Don't even think he has a real name anymore." He shrugs, one shoulder going up as he smiles. "He responds to it. Kinda like the Librarian in Discworld."

Castiel blinks. "You've read those books?"

"Are you kidding?" Dean asks, sitting up a little. His hand drags along the back of Castiel's chair and settles just in front of Castiel's hood. "Pratchett is, like, a God. He's awesome." The smile on Dean's face is enough to make Castiel smile back, and he sits forward a little because, he realizes, he was sinking down in his seat, relaxing like Dean was slouching. At once the teen's expression changes, eyes narrowing a little, and his hand moves the hood of Castiel's hoodie. "What's that?"

Castiel tenses up, eyes watching Dean's face, unmoving, as the teen pushes back the thick hood of Castiel's hoodie. He knows what Dean will see, knows it in the dull throb when he swallows and the way the teen's warm fingers press against sensitive skin. It is then and only then, when the guitar-calloused fingers just gently brush over his neck, that Castiel leans away, reaching up to replace the hood and make sure it falls properly across his neck. "Nothing."

There is a flash of emotion in Dean's eyes – something dark and confused – before it passes and the teen plasters on a sly, knowing smile. "Well, Jimmy, you move fast. Who's the lucky guy?" he asks, flopping back down in the seat and digging his elbow into Castiel's side – the arm that had been around Castiel's shoulders, and the older teen hadn't realized how much he would miss the warmth of Dean's arm around him.

"There is no guy," Castiel replies, feeling a slight bit of panic rising up in his throat and making it difficult to speak. He can't…can't give anything away. He just has a few more months and then he's out of there and nothing will have changed. "I slipped in the shower this morning and hit my neck and back on the faucet."

"Faucets leave teeth marks?" Dean asks with a smirk. Castiel barely resists the urge to smooth his fingers over the hickey, trying to see what Dean is talking about, determine how good a look he got of it and if Castiel's story could still hold up.

"Just…leave it alone, Dean," Castiel replies with a sigh, sitting back and looking towards the stage at the front of the room. Dean sighs but lets it go, slouching down in his seat and, almost unconsciously, his arm goes to the back of Castiel's chair again.

It feels…nice.

About thirty seconds later the door to the auditorium bangs open, letting in a small, frazzled-looking man carrying about his weight in what looks like single sheets of paper. In one hand he carries a briefcase that is also bulging with loose leafs, and he runs down the stairs and up onto the stage, breathing heavily as though he has hurried a long way.

"Sorry I'm late, class," he says, kneeling down on the stage and setting all the papers down next to him. He then proceeds to start going through the sheets, separating every fifth or so and folding them at the corner, setting the make-shift piles together in opposite directions so they remain separated. "My car wouldn't start, I couldn't find the stapler either so we're just gonna have to work with this here…"

Zen – Castiel assumes this must be Zen – is the antithesis of his name. The man's dark brown hair looks like he uses electricity to style it, his eyes are wide and panicked – he has the build of someone who stays in front of computers all day and just about the same amount of sun in his skin, and his hands bear no blemishes or scars from a hard day's manual labor.

He looks up from where he is shuffling through the papers, eyes darting over the two dozen people staring back at him. "Small group this year," he notes, standing up. "Good." He gives an awkward little smile, and then his eyes find Dean within the crowd. "Hand these out for me," he says, shoving the pile towards Dean, who gives a half-hearted salute and rolls to his feet, scooting past Castiel to get to the sheets of paper and then starts distributing them. "This year we're doing a play that I've adapted to avoid the copyright infringement. I need to know what you all can do and how you're going to be able to help so I've printed off some reading for you guys."

Castiel frowns when Dean hands his the five sheets of paper, folded roughly in one corner. On the front is written in rather clumsy scrawl; 'Wickéd – The Zen Tribal Musical'. He can't help but smirk a little at the choice. Underneath the written new title, bullet pointed, are the changes being made to the original script.

"As you can see, it's going to be a bit of a spin on the original," Zen says as Dean returns the rest of the copies to the stage and sits back down. "For starters, Elfaba no longer exists."

There is an outraged squeal from across the room, and Castiel looks over to see the same redheaded girl from his chemistry class look up at Zen with a disbelieving expression.

"This story is about epic love and _the Wicked Witch of the West! _How can you get rid of her?" she demands, folding her arms across her chest and tossing her hair with a huff.

Zen paused for a moment, eyes darting about nervously. "Well, uh, I'm not. See, Elfaba -."

"Is now a man," Castiel finishes for him, loudly – she would have noticed if she'd looked at the damn notes. He smiles up at his teacher. "Elfaba's character is going to be played by a male."

Zen smiles. "Exactly!" he says, clapping his hands together and accidentally scrunching up his own copy still in his hand. He looks at the papers for a moment, blinking at them as though he had forgotten they were there, and then shrugs, drops them and picks up another copy. "Elfaba is now going to be 'Elfabio', cursed tribal markings on his face, to be feared and hated until he…well, the rest of the story's kind of the same." Zen shrugs a little. "Turns out you only have to change one character and it's an 'adaptation'. Some of the songs will be reworded, too, and I've cut one or two of them out. Not the big ones, mind you, but a couple of them." He smiles wide. "It's going to be totally awesome."

The redhead huffs again, crossing her legs and tightening her arms around her torso. Zen, however, doesn't seem to notice. "I expect each and every one of you to contribute to the play, either by being in it or helping me behind stage. If you want to audition, use the script excerpt I've given you and prepare a song. It'll count for extra credit if you participate so…"

Then, he claps his hands together, ruining yet another piece of script. "Now, who wants to tear apart 'Singin' In The Rain'?"

* * *

><p>"Are you going to audition?" Castiel asks Dean on the way to lunch after Zen had dismissed them from their class.<p>

Dean shrugs slightly, smiling. "I promised Rubles I'd do it with her if she did, and I wanted her to be able to try 'cause she has an _awesome_ voice, so yeah, gonna have to." He shrugs again. "But, I mean, _Wicked_ is pretty awesome. I've always liked the songs in it." A pause. "You?"

"I'm not really much of a singer," Castiel hedges, looking down at his feet as they walk. "Never really tried. I'll help out behind set, though, or something. I'm good at making sure everything's working together well."

"That's good," Dean says lightly. "But I think you should still audition. You'd look hot all marked up like a tribal dude."

Castiel blinks at him. "You wouldn't go for the main part?" he asks, cocking his head to one side and pointedly ignoring the low flush of pleasure that warms his gut when Dean had complimented him.

Dean laughs. "You kiddin'? That high note on 'Defying Gravity' would _kill_ me. 'Sides, I think Fiyero is more my gig. The white knight and all that." He chuckles, winking at Castiel, who pretends to study him for a long moment.

"You'd make a purdy scarecrow," he finally says, making Dean burst into laughter as they enter the cafeteria. It's smaller than the one in Boston, but not as brightly decorated or very interesting-looking. It kind of just looks like a converted gymnasium, which it very may well have been – there are still holes in the walls from equipment being supported there. Castiel and Dean join the line and Dean waves over to Sam and Ruby, who have already gotten their lunch and claimed a table for them.

"You gonna join us?" Dean asks as they slowly edge along, grabbing a tray and reaching for a plate of pizza and fries. Castiel purses his lips, thinking about it, and then nods silently – he has nowhere else to sit and he may as well spend his time with company he enjoys.

He only ends up buying a water and two apples – he needs to save up as much money as he can for when he goes to live on his own, and if that means going hungry for one meal a day he can definitely do that, and squirrel away the rest of what his dad gives him for lunch money each day. Dean raises an eyebrow at his choice but Castiel just shrugs at him and offers no explanation.

"Hey…Jimmy," Ruby says, blushing a little when Dean and Castiel join them. The slight hesitance on his real name makes Castiel pause, and then he smiles gratefully over at Ruby and she smiles shyly back. "Hey, Dean."

"Move over, squirt," Dean says with a grin, situating himself next to Ruby and across from Castiel at the table, setting his tray down. Sam, Castiel sees, has bought fruit juice and a salad and hardly bats an eye at Castiel's minimalist lunch. Ruby has decided to follow in the oldest Winchester's footsteps and has a burger that's almost the size of her head with a plate of fries. "Aww, man," Dean mutters, looking at her food. "They had burgers?"

Ruby grins, and then reaches for his plate and immediately swaps hers and Dean's over. "I got the last one for you," she says, making Dean grin at her and ruffle her hair affectionately.

"You sure know the way to a man's heart, Rubles," he says, making her smile, and Castiel smiles also. He plays with the cap of his water as he watches the Winchesters interact with each other – there is clearly a lot of love in that family, even for Ruby who isn't technically their blood, and it warms his heart as well as saddens him to see such obvious _good_ in people. Kind of ruins his whole 'everyone's a dick' outlook on life.

He is broken out of his thoughts by a gentle nudge against his arm, and blinks back to awareness to find Sam looking at him, one cheek bulging out with a mouthful of salad. "Sorry?" he asks, realizing he hadn't been paying attention to the conversation.

Sam grins forgivingly and swallows his mouthful. "I asked if you were going to audition for the school play, or any clubs or anything."

Castiel sighs, looking down at his uneaten fruit and abandoned water. "I suppose I should," he says with a small shrug. "Need as many extracurricular things as I can get in, I guess." He purses his lips, eyes flashing over to Dean for a moment who is watching him expectantly, as though he should know everything he wants to do with his life – to be honest, Castiel does, but none of it is really centered in the high school part aside from _surviving high school _and getting out with his head still screwed on and money still in his bank account. "I'll probably help out backstage and all that. I'm not really much of a singer."

Sam snorts, rolling his eyes. "That's not gonna stop me."

And Castiel grins, because he has heard Sam sing, and while maybe not as strong as his brother yet, he still has a pretty spectacular voice for his age. He opens his water again and takes a swig, eyes flashing to movement by the doors of the cafeteria.

It's Michael and a crew of football players, if their matching jackets are anything to go by. Castiel's brow furrows a little – he'd thought Michael was too old to still be in school.

"Oh God," Ruby mutters, holding her head and ducking her face. "He's here. He was subbing for Ms Harvelle today. Made us play dodge ball."

"What?" Dean replies, anger making his voice low and rough for a second, more of his mid-west accent coming out. He shoots a glare over towards Michael, who is laughing within the group of jocks and gives one of them a high-five, before heading away from them. He's walking towards the four.

Dean stands up to meet him. "Hey, baby," Michael says, grinning wide and reaching forward to wrap a hand around Dean's shoulder. Castiel watches on, watches because, from the smirk or triumph on Michael's face when Dean lets the touch land, he knows Michael wants him to see. "How's my boy today?"

Dean's expression goes even darker, if possible, and he pushes Michael's hold away. "What the hell kinda thing you pullin', makin' freshmen play dodge ball on the first damn day? What gave you the right?"

Michael raises a brow, a superior smirk on his face as he raises his chin in defiance. "Harvelle called in sick – said Ash was havin' one of his episodes again. I covered. S'a good game, builds teamwork and -."

"That's _not_ what I'm talking about and you _know_ it," Dean hisses, stepping close to Michael again, his voice lowered and eyes flashing with anger, and Castiel, for a moment, sees the big brother inside of Dean, sees the complete protector that the oldest Winchester is for his siblings – enough to stand up to his obviously intimidating boyfriend in front of the whole damn cafeteria, and people are starting to look.

That must be, Castiel decides, what makes Michael back off a little. He holds his hands up in front of him in surrender. "God, who knew you'd turn into such a little bitch over a game," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "I'll see you later, babe."

"Arrogant son of a -." Dean shoots Sam a warning glance when he sits back down, vehemently stabbing his fork into a fry and taking a bite out of it. The dark expression has yet to leave his face and Castiel doesn't like it. "I don't know why you put up with it, Dean -."

"Some people put up with situations they don't want to because they know it will be worth it in the end," Castiel interrupts, laying a hand on Sam's arm and giving him a meaningful look, then looking back to Dean who is watching him out of the corner of his dark jade eyes. "I'm sure that Michael will come to realize what made Dean so upset and right his wrongs."

"Yeah," Dean mutters with a slight roll of his eyes, and then coughs, once, setting his fork back down. "Well, it'll blow over. Just, if he tries to pull that kind of shit again, you let me know, kay?" he says, looking towards his little sister, who nods, her dark brown eyes wide and nervous.

There is a moment of tense silence, none of them really eating but pretending to, before Castiel lamely tries to change the topic of conversation; "Any part you're going after, Ruby? In the musical?"

Ruby flushes a little, shrugging. "I dunno. I might get to be a munchkin or something. It'd be…kinda cool to play the little sister, whatever her name is…"

"Nessa," Castiel supplies for her helpfully, earning an appraising look from Dean.

"Dude," he says, a mix of appreciation and incredulousness in his voice. "Do you know, like, everything?"

Castiel blinks at him. "I like to know about a little of everything," he replies smoothly. "It makes the conversation easier." He then turns back to Ruby, smiling at her. "And it's a good part – a strong one but not very taxing either."

"Yeah and you get to be, like, the only character that actually dies," Dean adds, grinning and winking at Ruby who giggles, taking a fry from her own plate and popping it into her mouth. "That'd be cool. And Sam can be…the cowardly lion."

"Oh, haha," the younger Winchester replies with a toss of his hair. "You'd be perfect to play the lead munchkin guy, Dean – you're just the right height," he retorts. Dean snorts in amusement, shaking his head. "Hey, Jimmy, you should come over tonight. We can go over reading parts if you want."

"Zen got those out already?" Castiel asks, amused.

Dean snorts again. "Please, between Zen and Pam, there are _no _secrets in Lawrence High. Those two are practically psychic." He rolls his eyes. "So, you in?"

Castiel swallows, shaking his head. "I have to be home as soon as school's out, unfortunately – still have loads of unpacking to do." The lie comes easily, sliding off his tongue, though it leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, lying to such honest people as the Winchesters.

"Oh." Dean pauses, a small furrow between his brows. "Well, do you want any help with that? It'd be some extra hands for you and your dad if -."

"That's a very kind offer, Dean, but no," Castiel replies, too quickly, with a light smile and a shake of his head. God, if his father came home and found that he'd had guests…no, just better to go home, clean and unpack and put away as much as possible, and then wait for the inevitable. "But maybe some other time."

"Okay," Dean says after a moment, still frowning in concern, staring at Castiel like he's just been given a set of clues but is unsure what they mean or how they're meant to fit together. Luckily, Castiel is saved from further examination by the five-minute bell, warning the remaining students that they have five minutes before they are due for their next class.

Castiel bids the Winchesters a good day and stands, throwing his fruit into the garbage can, uneaten, and finishing off his water before throwing that away too. He has English next, with a Professor McCloud – he doesn't particularly like English. The only silver lining in that class is that there isn't a Dickens book in sight – all fairness to Charles Dickens, honestly, he was probably a very celebrated writer, but Castiel had never had to suffer such long-winded and rambling narrative in his life and he's not particularly eager to revisit that.

* * *

><p>"Cas?"<p>

The use of his real name – granted, a moniker only used by three people he's ever known in his life, but still his real name – stops him dead in the hall, and he turns around to find Ruby standing in the middle of the corridor, chewing on her lower lip slightly and looking nervous.

He swallows. "Yes?"

Ruby takes a step closer, reaching up to twirl one lock of her dark hair around her finger. For a long moment, they just stare at each other, as though what they're seeing is frighteningly familiar but at the same time so very, very different, and Castiel thinks, not for the first time, that she might see, or smell something on him – be aware of some taint that he's not even aware of himself. He ducks his eyes, looking down at the floor between them.

Then, in a soft voice, she asks; "Did you like the song?"

The question catches him off guard and he blinks again, and then smiles, one corner of his mouth quirking up higher than the other. "Very much. You have a beautiful voice. It just needs to be a little stronger."

"I was thinking Dean and I should do it for our audition piece." She pauses again. "Would you…help us? Make it perfect?"

He swallows, aware that the bell is about to ring and he really should go – he should leave her with no answer, or a half-assed one at best. Shouldn't commit, shouldn't obligate himself towards anyone. But she…

"I'll see what I can do," he hears himself saying, and she smiles, but doesn't turn back around to rejoin her brothers in the cafeteria, or go off towards her own classes. He feels like a prey animal getting stared down, waiting for the predator to make the first move.

"Don't think that there's no one there," Ruby says after a moment, taking a step closer so her already quiet voice has not a hope of being heard over the general bustle of the cafeteria or the few students trickling out towards their classes. Castiel's eyes widen at her words and his fingers tighten into fists around the sleeves of his hoodie, worrying what she might know, what she might see. "I used to…to be the same way. But even worse. Worse put together, I mean. You don't…I mean, I won't say anything, about any of it – you are Jimmy, super-nerd, to me, as long as you want to be."

He doesn't expect the slight sting of tears in his eyes – he doesn't think about this. This sort of thing is for the nighttime hours, for the aftermath of his father's visits and the things he can only think about with the slow burn of alcohol in his gullet.

He coughs, looking down at the ground again, and sucks in a breath that feels like he's trying to hold it together, and damn it, he _doesn't do this anymore_. "Thanks, Ruby," he whispers, and then makes a hasty retreat, not looking back to see how she's looking at him.

No one can know. Sure, she won't tell – he believes her, ridiculous as that might seem – but that doesn't mean she doesn't _know_. The fewer people who know, who suspect, the fewer that can get the upper hand on him. God, he just cannot deal with this right now.

He forces himself to walk as fast as he can to McCloud's class, sitting in the back left seat, towards the windows. The view is a nice one, looking out over the football field in the back of the school, and he entertains himself watching the players to drill runs and thanking God he was never gifted with the kind of body coaches and recruiters ask for, before the class begins and his mind is occupied with thoughts of Heathcliffe and the moors. It occurs to him, about half-way through the class, that he missed Jo's broadcast about Dean's song. He makes a mental note to look it up if it's online, and does not give it another thought.

* * *

><p>They establish a routine, Jimmy and the Winchesters. In the mornings he is driven to school with them, he has lunch with them, he listens and seethes quietly as Michael continues to treat them like crap and is given no answer as to why. Days turn into weeks and they come and go. Castiel doesn't go to another potluck again. Instead, he spends his Sunday nights listening to Jo's radio station online, listening to Dean's songs. Some of them, he has taken Castiel's advice on, changed to suit the older teen's recommendations. The most recent one, though, with Ruby's voice, is exactly the same as when he'd sent it to Castiel, and the older teen wonders, sometimes, if perhaps the song is best left as it is.<p>

Finally, the day comes for auditions. To say the school is abuzz would be a little overkill, but there is definitely an air of excitement and anticipation. The auditions are to be held at lunch and the free period after, and Castiel agrees to come and support Dean and Ruby when they go to audition.

There are significantly more people gathered in the auditorium when Castiel arrives at lunch time, and he goes to sit in the back away from the hopefuls lined up to audition for parts in the play. He sees Pamela, Zen and one other teacher he doesn't recognize sitting at a table half-way up the auditorium amidst all the chairs, and Dean and Ruby and Sam are all in the third row. Dean sees him and waves enthusiastically and Castiel gives a smile and head-nod back.

Finally, Pam stands and begins to speak, her clear voice ringing out and bringing the gathered teenagers to go silent. "Alright, you lousy lot, let's get this show on the road," she yells, waving her hand vaguely and then plopping back down. Zen stands, then, looking nervous and skittish as ever, as he pushes up some thick wire-rimmed glasses on his nose.

"Uh, thank you, Pam," he says with a nervous grin, looking down at all the kids. "Well, I'm pleased with the turn-out so far. Hopefully we'll be able to find everyone a place. I, ah, guess we'll start at the beginning, eh?" He chuckles nervously. The amount of tension in the air increases by about tenfold and Zen pauses, taking a deep breath, muttering something low enough that no one can hear.

He calls out a name, one Castiel doesn't recognize – Anna Milton. The willowy, diva redhead from his first day stands, then, giving the judges a charming smile and waltzing onto the stage with her fair share of exultant, encouraging cheers. There is a single microphone on the stage and she quickly takes it, unhooking the wireless mic from its stand and pushing the stand off to one side so she is uninhibited in the middle spotlight.

"Hit it!" she yells off to one side, where Castiel presumes there is a DJ with the accompanying tracks for each hopeful student, and the opening notes for 'Defying Gravity' start to play over the sound system.

Castiel can't help how his mouth twists into a smirk. Obviously someone can't learn to let the little things go – like not having a dick. He rolls his eyes at the girl's obvious ploy to try and win over the judges with that number – it is an impressive song to pull off. Would have been even more impressive if she'd managed to hit the last note without her voice cracking.

Still, her posse give her raucous cheers when she finishes. She smiles a smile that's blinding, takes a bow, and saunters back offstage while the judges scribble their notes and wait for the next name to be called.

Dean catches Ruby staring and nudges her with his elbow. "She really wasn't that good," he whispers, leaning over so no one else can hear, and Sam nods.

"Yeah," he says with a toss of his hair. "I wouldn't have chosen that song for her. Only a few people can really hit it."

"Makes me wonder why we're even doing this play," Ruby says nervously, her nails curling into the cheap black polyester. She looks back over her shoulder, finds Cas – _Jimmy, _she reminds herself in her head – watching the stage with sharp, perusing eyes. Like someone looking for new talent. Like a record or music dealer.

She is reminded that this is _Castiel_, the musical presence that is Dean's music critic and hopefully his future producer, and she wonders how Castiel will be able to do that if he's barely older than they are. He must be very determined and very prepared.

Or just a little crazy.

When people are done auditioning, usually they leave. Soon there is only Sam, Ruby, Dean and Castiel in the room, and Sam goes up by himself, singing a decent rendition of Johnny Cash's 'Ring of Fire' before taking his seat to the excited whoops of Dean and Ruby, grinning goofily – they all know he is just there for moral support, but one thing he knows, and that Castiel is going to learn very soon, is that no one comes to an audition just to watch.

Finally, it is Dean and Ruby's turn. "We wanted to sing together, if that's alright," he says into the mic, dragging another from backstage and adjusting it to Ruby's height. "Just one of the new songs."

Zen smiles indulgently and gestures for them to continue. Pamela and the other teacher – Castiel had heard Zen call him 'Mister Harvelle' – are smiling also, and Castiel wonders just what Dean meant when he called them 'like this'. He wonders if maybe favoritism might be affecting them here.

But he has heard Dean sing, recorded. He is about to see whether the boy and his sister are just as good life.

For a long moment, there is just silence, as Dean and Ruby wait for the track to be played. Then, the first few notes of a piano, long and lonely, float over the sound system. Castiel closes his eyes, letting himself relax into his seat and the music washes over him. It sounds exactly like Dean's track – right down to the almost haunting melody.

The sudden crash of guitar snaps his eyes open and he looks down, gasping, at the stage. It's…amazing. Over his tinny headphones and crappy music software, he'd been able to hear the power of Dean's songs. But here…here, he can _feel_ it. And it's just a little bit breathtaking.

Then, silence again. Dean turns to Ruby. There is a soft, caring expression on his face, his eyes unusually bright in the spotlight, his hands coming up to clench tightly around mic and stand.

"_You come to me with scars on your wrists…You tell me this will be the last night feeling like this…" _Castiel sees him reach out to her, fingers curling as though he just wants to touch, to hold, but he can't, and just watching as a bystander it's so damn sad and heartbreaking he kind of wants to turn away.

Nothing has affected him this strongly, he's sure, as now, listening to Dean sing.

Then, Ruby. Her voice is shaking, eyes fixed firmly on her older brother, her eyes just as wet. "_I just came to say goodbye - I didn't want you to see me cry, I'm fine_." She says it so strongly, like Castiel used to say it, used to insist to Bal and the world that he was fine – that _they are fine_. It makes him wonder just what Ruby had said when her dad…

Dean and Ruby harmonize together – it's pretty much the most emotional damn thing he's ever heardl; "_But I know it's a lie."_

Dean swings into the chorus, a bright, joyous smile coming to his face as he sings – he loves what he is doing, believes what he is saying, and Castiel can feel it, see it in a way he never would have been able to over the internet, and for a moment, he curses his own desire to keep his identity a secret, curses his own determination to get out of his town as soon as possible, because this…

This is amazing.

"_This is the last night you'll spend alone, look me in the eyes so I know you know I'm everywhere you want me to be."_

Is he singing to Castiel? He's looking out, Dean and Ruby, both of them are, to the judges, to Sam, and up, towards the darkness that Castiel is lurking in. It's almost too much – he wants to run, because Ruby knows and when Dean looks at him like that and is singing about that and it's just…

"_The last night you'll spend alone, I'll wrap you in my arms and I won't let go, I'm everything you need me to be."_ Ruby harmonizes on the last line. Castiel misses Sam's other harmony, lower than Ruby's but above Dean's, sitting so nicely between them and completing that small amount of empty space.

The second verse starts again. Dean and Ruby are looking towards each other once more and the break from their eye contact with Castiel gives him a moment to breath and recover, to listen to how they're singing and to appreciate their audition the way a judge would – testing for vocal range, strength, what they might be looking for.

He tries.

He can't think past the ringing in his ears.

"_Your parents say everything is your fault, but they don't know you like I know you - they don't know you at all."_ Dean's anger is almost palpable, spitting the words when he talks about Ruby's parents. There must be a lot of bad blood there.

Ruby's fingers curl into the sleeves of her shirt in a way Castiel recognizes – knows because he does it himself. "_I'm so sick of when they say, 'It's just a phase, you'll be okay, you're fine'…"_

"_But I know it's a lie."_

Castiel knows there is another chorus there, but the track fades out a little, cut for the audition, no doubt – the piano comes back, high and almost weak against the beat of the drums and guitar. Castiel wonders who their drummer is, as he has never heard a mention of the man or woman playing them.

_"The night is so long when everything's wrong…If you give me your hand I will help you hold on. Tonight."_

_"Tonight."_

The last chorus almost hurts – Ruby's voice breaks with emotion when Dean smiles at her – like she's trying to stop herself crying out of happiness, and there are definite tears in her eyes, sparkling under the fringe of her hair.

When the song fades out, Dean reaches for her and curls two of his fingers around her hand. It's such a small gesture and over almost as quickly as it had begun, but Castiel sees it, and he swallows, looking away from such a strangely intimate moment. Nothing could have prepared him for hearing Dean sing live, and he wishes that he had brought something to film or record it, because…_damn_.

He gets up to leave, unwilling to stay and needing to get to the next class, when Mister Harvelle suddenly turns around to look at him with an amused smirk. "Was wonderin' when you'd man up," he says, in a voice and accent that Castiel recognizes – Jo's father.

He swallows nervously. "What?"

The man rolls his eyes and laughs. "No one shows up to audition and doesn't audition. Come on down here, new kid."

"Oh…" Castiel's eyes dart nervously down to the Winchesters, who are looking up at him expectantly. "I didn't -."

"Listen, Novak, the sooner you just man up and sing for us the sooner we can all get back down to business. Now get that little white ass of yours on stage," Pamela snaps, in perhaps as friendly a way as a mountain lion can be, and Castiel finds himself obeying without conscious permission from his brain. He puts that down to the fact that he kind of just wants to leave so he can go up, make a quick fool of himself, and then go and congratulate Dean and Ruby on their performances, and laugh with Sam about how ridiculous they made themselves look.

"I…don't have anything prepared," he says guiltily, shoving his fingers into the pockets of his jeans.

Zen's sharp blue eyes look him over for a moment. "Track One," he calls out, crossing his arms over his chest, and Castiel looks to one side, mildly surprised to find Lucifer there, behind the scene. The teen nods, setting the CD to play, and gives a thumbs up to Castiel.

The opening notes of 'Defying Gravity' start to play, trickling softly over the sound system.

Without much other choice, Castiel grabs the mic, mildly surprised to find that his hands don't shake. He's never sung in front of people, or at all, really, and he's not quite sure how this will turn out. But he clears his throat, does a mental shrug and a 'this is going to be awkward' grin to Dean, and starts to sing.

* * *

><p>Finally, after a few moments of awkward staring while Castiel climbs down from stage, Dean and Ruby and Sam all watching him with wide eyes, he snaps, shoulders hunched forward and hands digging deeper into his pockets; "What?"<p>

"Dude," Dean breathes, eyes wide with awe, "you fucking nailed it."

"Dean!" Ruby gasps, scandalized by his language and scolding him for it.

"Sorry," Dean says, almost absently, waving her protest away. "But, seriously, Jimmy, who knew? You…that was awesome." Dean grins widely, flashing his teeth in his smile, and Castiel, despite himself, feels a warm blush rising on his cheeks. "I might have swooned for a minute there." He fans himself exaggeratedly, grinning wider.

Castiel blushes a little more. "It wasn't anything," he replies, re-shouldering his satchel and gathering his books. "Just a song. Anyone could have come up and done it."

"But not _anyone_ did it, _you_ did," Dean insists, following Castiel up the stairs with Sam and Ruby in tow. "I mean, Jesus, man, you gotta know you had an awesome voice. Never heard anything like it before."

Castiel raises a brow, sure that that's an exaggeration, if nothing else, and gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Music must run in my family," he says with another light shrug, opening the auditorium door and letting the Winchesters through. "But it's no big deal. They told me to sing and I sang. End of."

"Hey, Winchester!" The four of them turn around in time to see a small blur of honey-blonde hair and plaid shirt collide with them, with enough force into Sam to knock him back against the lockers. "Watched you guys sing. Little birdie told me you're shoe-ins for parts."

"Shove it, Gabe," Dean says, but he's smiling and his tone is fond. Castiel blinks once, and then again when he connects the half-familiar face to the name. Gabriel Santos. Michael's little brother.

"We _just_ auditioned," Sam says with a grin, shoving at the smaller teen's forehead with one finger until Gabriel is forced to release his strangle hold on him. "Like. Literally just."

"So?" Gabriel asks, shrugging. "Zen loves you and you guys are _good_ – like, _I might just come in my pants hearing you _good. And _new kid_." Gabriel then turns to Castiel, who blinks at him again, not quite sure how to handle the vibrant younger boy and equate him at the same time to a brother of Michael. "_You_ have a voice like _woah_. What little hole did you crawl out from, undiscovered like that?"

"…Washington State," Castiel replies after a moment to gather his thoughts. He holds his hand out, then. "Jimmy."

Gabriel raises a brow, and then shakes his hand. "My brother seems to think you have a different name," he says slowly, his eyes hazel, sharp and appraising.

Ruby tenses up by his side but Castiel has become a master at, if nothing else, lying about his fake identity over the past few weeks. More than one person has been curious about the 'new kid'. Strange, it seems to him – in Boston no one would care if you were new or old. Meat was meat.

"My middle name is Slavonic," Castiel says with a smooth smile. "My dad likes to call me by that name because James is a little too boring." He gives a one-shouldered shrug and a polite, humble little smile. "Can't be helped."

Gabriel nods once, accepting his bullshit excuse, and then he turns back to Dean and Sam with a grin. "Well, I'm sure I'll see all your names on the role list," he says with a grin, then salutes. "See all you gorgeous things later." Then, with a snap of his fingers, he's practically _skipping_ down the hallway, and Castiel kind of has to watch him go just to be sure he wasn't some strange figment of his imagination.

Dean snorts after a moment. "I swear, sometimes I think Gabe spends too much time huffing magic markers," he mutters, shifting his backpack higher on one shoulder. "But anyway, Jimmy, you were awesome, but class is a-callin'."

Castiel smiles and nods. "I understand, Dean. Sam, Ruby, I shall see you all later."

* * *

><p><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Hey, Cas.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Hello, Dean. Have you made any progress on the song we talked about?

It has been a few weeks since Dean and Castiel have been online at the same time – school and homework have been getting in the way of Dean's usual busy schedule, and Castiel, he is sure, is a busy man with many of his own prior obligations.

**Highway to Hell: **I've tried a few. Sending them to you now to have a look over.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Thank you, Dean.

Dean smiles, unable to deny the little flush of pleasure he gets every time Castiel thanks or praises him – when Castiel finds his perfect song, when the time is right, he'll go to his contractors with Dean's CD and, hopefully, everything will fall into place from there.

Dean looks up, out of his bedroom window. Winter has come to Kansas like a hit-and-run, the cold seeping in enough that Dean's feeling the chill radiating from his bedroom window. It probably doesn't get as cold here as it does in Boston (Jimmy has yet to change from his usual light hoodies and jeans) but it's pretty damn cold by a Kansas native's standards and he feels perfectly justified in slipping a sweatshirt over his head to keep warm.

**CNNetwork: **I really do like Ruby, Dean. She has a very good voice. This first one you've sent me…Your style is changing. Are the violins played by someone or from a keyboard?  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Keyboard, unfortunately. Don't have the manpower for that sort of thing unless we wanted to try layering it. You like them?  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Very much. That reminds me, I'd meant to ask – who is your drummer?  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Friend – Gabriel. He's pretty good, isn't he?  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>He seems too soft sometimes. Maybe try and balance the guitar and drums more – I feel like I either hear a lot of one and none of the other, or too little of both. And remind him that he can be braver.  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Hah, shouldn't say things like that to Gabriel. He's plenty as he is.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Nevertheless. You need to get the balance right. I do like this song though. Do you have a name for it?  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Not yet. Not really on the namin' committee, you know.

Castiel smirks at that, tapping his fingers lightly on the keyboard, before a loud bang makes him jump, and he looks up, eyes wide and terrified, when he sees his father standing at the entry to his bedroom, eyes dark and narrowed on the laptop in his lap.

He hadn't even heard the man come home.

Shit.

"Where the fuck did you get that?" he demands, stepping forward and yanking the thing from Castiel's hands, letting it clatter to the floor. Castiel winces, afraid that perhaps he had broken the machine, but as well as being cheap and quiet; apparently the case is made from titanium or something because it doesn't even flicker.

"James -." Castiel reply is cut off as, when he tries scrambling to his feet, he is knocked back against his bed, his father's heavy bulk landing on top of him and a harsh punch is landed to his side, knocking the wind out of him. He gasps, rolling onto his side and curls up to try and catch his breath, wrapping his arms around his middle.

Shit.

**Highway to Hell: **Cas? You there?

Dean looks up, alarmed by a loud banging sound, and his eyes widen when he sees that, across the street, he is looking right into Jimmy's room. Or he assumes it's Jimmy, from the tuft of dark black hair, pale skin, and just the flash of blue eyes he catches before a much larger figure is looming over the teenager, tension and anger in every coil of tensed muscle.

That window had always used to be boarded up.

"Holy fuck," Dean whispers, eyes wide when he sees Jimmy's father bend down and haul the teen up to his feet, only to land a harsh punch to his face, sending him back to the floor and out of sight again. Dean's hands are shaking on his keyboard, his body trembling with the urge, the _need_, to do something.

He should stop this.

But…

It's late at night. His parents are asleep and if he just goes over there by himself there's no guarantee he won't end up making things worse, or the enraged man might just do something worse to Jimmy if he did intervene.

"Fuck," he whispers, and does the only thing he can think of – types to Cas for advice.

There is no answer.

Dean gets to his feet, torn, and stills when Jimmy's face reappears in the small space of his window. His nose is broken, looks like, and there's blood running down from his nostrils to a split lip. He's clinging to the window ledge, hauling himself to his feet, but then a larger hand is on his shoulder and hauling him back and he's gone again.

**Highway to Hell: **Cas? Are you there? What the hell am I supposed to do?

Castiel does the only thing he can think of, when his father turns him around from the window and heads in for another blow – he surges forward, hands knotting dangerously tightly in his father's hair, and shoves him away. He fights back, because he is terrified – there is a rage in his father's eyes that he has not seen before, knows that this is the time of year when things are worse, so much worse, but he hadn't known and he can defend himself, damn it, and he will _not_ let James kill him.

That would be such a waste.

His father growls, lunging again and Castiel ducks, landing as hard a punch as he can to his father's ribs, and runs for the door. If he can get away and maybe run somewhere, anywhere…

He stops when he reaches the top of the stairs. Where will he run? Nowhere – he has nowhere to go. He will not go to Dean, or Sam, or Ruby, or even Gabriel – especially Gabriel – his only friends in this Godforsaken place. He can't run to Bal – fuck, Bal's not _here_. There is just him and his psychopathic father and he's angry and Castiel is helpless and he has nowhere to run.

_Just a few more months_. Funny how those thoughts have fallen and died away over his short time here – he's only been here a couple of months. Christmas break is just around the corner and before then the casting sheets will go up for the school play as well as scripts for those chosen. Dean will be going away with his family to visit their uncle in Vermont and Castiel will have no one but his drunkard father for company.

He can't…refuse the man. Can't do it again.

A hand on his shoulder, whirling him around, pulls him out of his thoughts. "Don't you _fucking_ run away from me again, you hear me?" he growls, yanking Castiel close enough that the teen can identify the Jameson on his breath – Castiel's half-empty bottle. "Come here, you worthless piece of shit."

"Dad," Castiel begs, fingers curling into the crisp, cheap button-down and pulling, fighting against the choke-hold his father has against his neck, cutting off his air supply. "Please -."

"Shut the fuck up," his father demands, slamming Castiel up against the wall by his window and the teen gasps, but goes limp – this part, at least, he understands. His face hurts like a bitch, his side is throbbing and he's not sure he can swallow right. His cheekbone might be fractured. But this..this he knows. Familiar territory. Safety in knowing.

With another low growl, his father turns him around and presses with his forearm against the back of Castiel's neck, forcing him to press his face against the wall and it fucking hurts, _God_, does it hurt, almost as much as the rough fumble of alcohol-clumsy hands at his sweatpants and then two fingers plunging into him hard and fast.

He hisses, hand flying out, nails curling into the grainy wood as he clenches his jaw, tries to breathe and think past the pain in his body, to focus and push down all of his pain and emotions into a tiny box, and squish the box until he can't get it any tighter, and lock it in a safe, and throw the safe into the bottom of a lake -.

"Oh, _shit_, fuck," he gasps, tears springing to his eyes when his father withdraws his thick, calloused fingers, instead pressing the blunt head of his cock at Castiel's barely-stretched entrance. Even at his worst, there's never been so little prep and such dryness.

This is going to hurt. Castiel knows this.

He's not wrong.

He screams, beating his hand against the wooden frame of his window hard enough to probably crack a few bones there, too.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he finds the voice to beg;

"Dad, please, please, stop – _fuck_, it -." He is cut off with another sharp hiss as his father thrusts forward a few more inches, until Castiel feels their thighs pressed together, the hot breath on the back of his neck, heavy balls pressed against his ass. God but it hurts so fucking much. "Dad, _please_ – let me go. Stop, please, _please_ dad -."

"You deserve this," comes the answer, the low, dark reply as the thick flesh inside of him drags out, tearing him with its roughness before thrusting back in. He's getting wetter and he shudders at the thought of why and how. The scent of rust and sweat and blood in the air is strong, and when Castiel turns his head to one side he leaves a smear on the wall from his nose and lip.

There is a hand on the back of his neck, forcing him harder into the wall, and Castiel chokes, struggling for breath. His hand clenches hard enough that his nails break his palm and his knuckles throb dully, but everything hurts. His fucking _heart_ hurts and it's been a long fucking time since that happened. He hears himself crying out for anyone – anything, his father, Bal, _God_, but it doesn't matter.

No one helps.

* * *

><p>Dean watches, frozen in horror as he watches his friend get violently beaten and raped before his very eyes. He has to assume it's rape – wouldn't call it anything else from the amount of blood smeared on Jimmy's window and the tears running down from his friend's eyes, smearing the blood on his cheeks. He cannot see the face of Jimmy's father but knows him from the matching hair and build, knows him because he can barely make out Jimmy's mouth making the words 'please' and 'dad' and 'stop'.<p>

"Oh my God," he whispers, pressing his hand to his mouth, tears welling up in his eyes. He can't tear his gaze away, stuck in some sort of morbid, horrified fascination as he watches Jimmy's father thrust harder into the teen's limp, bruised and bleeding body, watches the man still and bite harshly at his son's neck as he comes. He watches Jimmy's father pull out, his softening cock bloody, and watches Jimmy collapse to the ground. "Oh my God."

Castiel still hasn't replied and Dean doesn't know what to do. He can just make out Jimmy's head as the teen curls up next to the window, undoubtedly trying to get a grip on himself. Dean wonders just how long shit like this has been going on.

_All those long-sleeved hoodies. Constantly._

"Shit," Dean whispers, and then his attention is caught again by a new message from Castiel.

**CNNetwork: **Leave the situation alone, Dean. It is none of your concern.  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>But. I can't just leave him and let this go on. I can't just pretend like it never happened. For fuck's sake, Cas, my best friend just got raped by his Goddamn father!  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>He will come to you when and if he wants and needs your help. Do not provoke a situation when a violent adult and unstable minor is involved. If your friend wants and needs your help, he will contact you or let you know in some way.  
><strong>Highway to Hell: <strong>Cas.  
><strong>CNNetwork: <strong>Dean, I fucking mean it. Do not get involved.

The swear coming from Castiel is enough to make Dean pause and wonder why he has gotten so vehement about it. Reluctantly he agrees, but vows to himself to see Jimmy tomorrow and ask him what the hell he just saw, and determines to get help for his friend whether it is wanted or not.

* * *

><p>Dean had seen. Not only seen, but is planning to tell people, tell <em>officers<em>.

_No_, Castiel thinks to himself, slamming a fist into the floor and hissing, tears spilling over his cheeks as he looks at the floor between his feet. _I was so close_.

Castiel doesn't follow his father to bed to make sure he's okay like he usually does. He stays in his room, curled up on himself and willing the aches of his body and the swirling maelstrom of his mind to go away.

"Shit," Castiel whispers, pressing the heels of his aching palms against his eyes. His whole body _throbs_ and he knows he should probably go seek medical attention, but he knows at the same time that he won't. Instead, he hauls himself to his feet and goes over to that thin red spiral-bound notepad that he had unpacked and then forgotten about all those weeks ago.

His fingers tremble and leave marks on the paper as he flips it open, kneeling in front of it while the notepad rests on his bed. Inside are pages and pages of Balthazar's untidy scrawl, and diagrams, and basically everything anyone would ever need to know about medical care at home. Bal had been studying to become a doctor, and had given Castiel all the notes he could think of from medical journals and textbooks on how to treat the human body for pretty much anything that another human could deal to them without having to go to the hospital.

"Because I know you'll never tell," he had said to Castiel when he'd handed him the book.

His eyes are full of tears when he opens the first few pages, flicking to the things he needs. He takes a few deep breaths, laying a palm against where his ribs are throbbing to try and see if there is any cracking that he needs to take care of. He can breathe easily enough if he doesn't try too hard – probably nothing majorly broken there. His first two knuckles are fractured and he binds them together as tightly as he can with sports bandages that he'd bought years ago and had had to use way too many times for someone as non-athletic as him.

He manages to drag himself to the bathroom and turns the water on, filling the bath – normally he would just shower but he needs to take his time, this time, and make sure that he's actually going to be alright before going to sleep. His body feels weak and numb and he might be going into shock – he's not sure, he's pretty sure he's never gone into shock before so he's not quite sure what it's meant to feel like. He doesn't really feel like anything.

The water is almost scalding hot when Castiel lowers himself into it, submerging everything but his bandaged hand for as long as he can take it before he surfaces for air with a deep breath. A shower would be too loud for his father but, like this, he is quiet enough and can hear someone coming down the hall like he hadn't before.

"God," he whispers, pressing a hand against his eyes again, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Everything hurts but the heat of the water is managing to wash a lot of that away, as he forces each and every muscle to relax. _Just a few months. It's almost March, Cas, you're okay._

_But Dean knows_.

Castiel is not an illogical person. The first time this happened – the first time his father let a kiss linger on his cheek and a lustful hand graze between his legs, Castiel knew one day it would come down to who would come out on top if things got ugly. For a long time, of course, he had not been able to support himself – had no job and no credentials to get one.

His plan had been to save money up, to get enough that he could start on his own, and then to become legally emancipated and live his life finally free of his father.

Then they'd moved to Kansas. The emancipation law states that a minor must have been a resident for at least a year before legally being qualified for emancipation.

Castiel hadn't wanted to think that his father would be that cruel, but apparently he was wrong.

There are tears in his eyes and he bites softly at his fractured knuckles, letting the pain center him and pull him back from the mini-breakdown he can feel coming on. His first instinct is to call Balthazar, to find peace and solace in his friend's advice. But he knows he shouldn't – it is irresponsible and downright selfish to trouble someone like that at a time like this. Besides, Bal would be half-way through his medical license right now. He has his own problems.

Heaving a deep breath, Castiel sighs and lets himself sink deeper into the cooling water, trying to keep as much of his body submerged in the heat as possible. He feels a little better already.

He needs to go tell Dean, to go explain himself and convince him not to tell anyone, to keep it a secret until Castiel turns eighteen, and then it will cease to matter. Except Jimmy doesn't know that Dean knows. Castiel does.

Running a damp hand through his hair, Castiel allows himself to make a small sound of frustration before falling silent again. Dean doesn't seem like the kind of person who would go blabbing – especially if what Castiel suspects is true, and that family has their own history in Ruby.

_She must know_, he thinks, remembering her words. _Her father must have…done some shit._ Castiel smirks – a small, bitter expression. _What is it around here that makes the dads go insane?_

His hand clenches on the side of the tub as he thinks, pressing the back of his other hand to his lips again. One thing's for sure – he can't do through that again. It has _never_ been this bad and now his father _knows things_ that he can use to hurt Castiel more.

He can't let it happen again. He won't.

* * *

><p>At a loss of anything else to do, Dean calls Michael.<p>

"How did you know?" he hisses, demands because it is the first thing he can think of – Michael said Jimmy was like Ruby. How could he have possibly known that unless he _knew_ it? There is no answer from the other side at first; "How did you know? About Jimmy? And his dad?"

For a long second, there is more silence. Then; "Sometimes it's obvious." The answer is bland, smug, and vague as all get-out and Dean finds himself growling in anger at his Angel.

"You were gonna let this _continue?_" Dean demands, raising his voice without realizing. "Why? Why do you hate him so much?"

"That _stain_ doesn't deserve your attention!" Michael snarls vehemently, making Dean pause. "That _demon_ is not who he says he is – he is evil and I don't want you anywhere near him."

"You're wrong," Dean argues, shaking his head. His hands are shaking and clenching tightly around the phone so hard it hurts. He stands up, leaving his bedroom, unable to stay and look into Jimmy's empty window and not see his friend coming back. He can't take worrying. "You're…Jimmy's not the evil one. He's not."

Michael's laugh is derisive and dark. "You're so set in seeing good in him, baby. Just like Ruby."

"Neither of them deserves your judgment!" Dean growls in reply, pacing towards the attic, where hopefully he'll be able to rant without disturbing the rest of the house. He just needs to be somewhere silent. "Ruby's parents were…" Dean stops at the door of the attic, his eyes wide as he just stares at the door, a few things falling into place in his mind. "_Fuck_."

There is no answer from the other end and Dean swallows. "How did you know?" he whispers.

Michael laughs again. "Please, Dean. You think I haven't seen? It's a good thing for a demon like him to be put in his place."

"You're a monster," Dean gasps out, unable to believe what he's hearing. "You were just going to…damn it, Michael, Jimmy is a _human being_."

"What do we know about him, Dean?" Michael snaps, his voice a low, intimidating growl. "He might be lying about his own damn name and you're just eating out of the palm of his hand!" A pause, while Dean swallows again and tries to talk past the lump building in his throat. "There is only one truth you need to know, baby – if you continue to interact with this demon, then I will cast him out myself. I will drive him far, far away from this town, away from you. I will drive all of the corruption away."

Michael is threatening Ruby. Dean knows this, and he knows that, as much as he wants to protect his sister and his family, he can't just leave Jimmy to his father's mercy as well. Not without knowing there is someone he can talk to and run to when things get really bad.

Jimmy is not alone and Dean refuses to let Michael make him feel that way.

"Dean?"

The teenager almost jumps at the soft whisper of his name, and he looks towards the attic door to find his mother, standing on the bottom step, her long golden hair falling around her shoulders. She is wearing a white silk dressing gown, ready for bed, and Dean feels guilty for waking her on the way to the attic.

He sighs and hangs up on Michael without saying goodbye, padding over to his mother. "Hey, mama," he whispers, sitting down on the stairs with her, and she smiles, wrapping a hand around his shoulder loosely and pulling him close.

"What's wrong, Dean?" she asks, brushing a thumb over his cheek, concern evident in her soft voice.

"I…" Dean pauses, swallowing, kneading nervously at his thighs, palms pressing against his jeans. "You know…you know how when we met Ruby for the first time, you just knew something was going on with her and you knew we had to help her even when the cops didn't believe us at first?"

Mary doesn't answer in words, but the soft hum against Dean's ear lets him know she understands and is listening, as her short nails gently brush over his scalp in a soothing motion that she repeats, as he lays his head on her shoulder.

"Well…I think there's a friend of mine who might be in trouble. And I don't know how to help them. Everyone's telling me that it's none of my business and I just…I don't know what to do, mama." He sighs, swallowing, remembering Jimmy's tears and the blood smeared across his pale skin. "I don't know how to help him."

"Dean," Mary whispers, brushing her hand over her son's temple again. "Here's something I learned from your father, and from mine – see, we Winchesters and Campbells, we fight. We fought for Ruby, and you should fight for your friend if you think he needs to be fought for."

"But…" Dean swallows again, feeling tears sting at his eyes, and he presses the heel of his hand against them to stop himself crying. "I know. And I can't. I don't know if I can, I mean. People could get hurt. Good people."

Mary hums again. "Well, it sounds like people are getting hurt right now."

Dean nods, breathing in deeply and inhaling her honey-and-chamomile scent, letting it soothe and calm him. He needs to talk to Jimmy, needs to find out what's going on and if his friend needs help – needs to help in any way he can, if he can. He clings to the sleeve of his mother's nightdress, feeling like a small child all over again, cradled in his mother's arms when she'd finally made it out of the house fire and they'd stood watching it burn.

"What if something goes wrong?" he whispers, blinking back tears and looking up into his mother's sea-blue eyes. "What if I just make things worse? I'd…I'd die if he got hurt because of me."

"Dean." Mary's expression turns serious, as she cups her son's face in her hands and forces Dean to look at her. "If your friend is in Ruby's kind of trouble, then you found out for a reason. Don't waste that gift, baby, or it will haunt you for the rest of your life."

Dean blinks at her, swallowing again and pressing his lips together, and Mary smiles, brushing her thumbs under her son's cheeks and wiping away the first traces of tears. She leans forward and presses a kiss against Dean's forehead. "I love you, Dean. Don't stay up too late, baby," she says, petting his hair one more time before standing and leaving the attic.

"Yeah," he whispers, to no one in particular, fiddling absently with the ring on his finger. He sighs, looking down, and finds himself playing with the thin silver band. After a moment's hesitation, he slides the ring off his finger, massaging the indent in his flesh that the ring had left behind. It aches and makes his finger tingle when blood is fully returned to it. "Sorry, Michael. I can't do it this time."

He leaves the ring in the attic before going downstairs. His dreams are full of Jimmy's screams and black-winged Angels.

* * *

><p>Castiel doesn't go to school the next day. He calls in sick for the next three days, pretending to be his father – their voices are pretty similar and the low, raspy drawl of his Bostonian born-and-bred father's accent is easy to mimic.<p>

He takes another shower in the morning and the water is still scalding hot. His face is bruised and swollen and his nose is possibly broken, but he's not quite sure. His fingers feel a lot better, though they still throb when he tries to twist them the wrong way, and if he tries to breathe too deeply his ribs twinge in a way that is far from comforting. But he's standing, and that's the important thing.

No one calls or visits the house – he stays inside for two days, alone and completely unbothered. It's…novel, to not have to worry about anyone coming knocking at the wrong time and place. Then again, the unnatural quiet is unnerving too. He's not used to having nothing to do.

It's too quiet.

He almost expects the levee to break. On Thursday afternoon there is a knock on the door and Castiel pulls up the thin white hood over his face, raking his hands through his hair so it falls forward to hide most of his swollen and bruised features, and goes to answer it.

He says nothing, staring at the ground between his feet and Dean's. He knows that those feet belong to Dean – recognizes the old Marine-issue combat boots that he must have gotten from his dad. He doesn't say a thing.

Finally; "Can I come in?" comes Dean's small, worried-sounding voice, and Castiel bites his lip but steps back from the door, into the kitchen. He slides onto a bar stool and sighs when sitting means he takes his weight off his sore legs and knees.

"How're Sam and Ruby?" he asks, trying to make light conversation. He dares to flash his eyes up through his fringe and finds Dean fixing him with possibly the most heart-breaking expression he's ever seen. He swallows and looks down again.

"I, um…" Dean coughs, taking a seat as well and setting down a thick pile of paper all stapled together. "I brought you your script." Castiel blinks at him. "You got the part. Of Elfabio."

"Oh," Castiel says in reply, reaching forward with his bandaged hand and taking the script. Sure enough, on the front page, is his name along with an untidy-looking 'Elfabio'. His lines have even been highlighted, he sees, when he casually flicks through the pages. "Thank you."

"Knew you'd get it," Dean whispers, a fond smile lighting his face for a moment. "…Jimmy, you haven't been to school."

A bitter snort escapes the smaller teen. "Haven't been feeling very well."

"I saw what happened."

Castiel tenses up. So, this is where it all comes out. He carefully closes the script and places it back on the kitchen island. For a brief moment, he decides to play coy and get Dean to just _say_ it – he doesn't want to give himself away any more than he already has. But it would be better to just…come out with it. Explain himself now.

"I can't get emancipated now," he says.

Dean blinks at him. "What?"

"When we moved to Kansas," Castiel replies, pushing his hood back from his face and rubbing a hand over it. If Dean has any reaction to his bruises and swelling, it doesn't show in any sound. There is heartbreak and compassion in his eyes, though, and it hurts to look at so Castiel doesn't.

"For me to be eligible for emancipation in Kansas, I'd have to have been a resident for at least a year," he explains, eyes flashing Dean's way, then back to the floor again. "I think my dad knew I was going to try and do it back in…Washington." He catches himself in the lie at the last moment. "I didn't think that he knew, but then out of the blue, 'Hey, we're going to Kansas'." A soft, bitter laugh escapes him. "I had all the money I would need to start myself out, good grades in high school – I was fully prepared to wait it out. But that bastard…" He shakes his head, laughing again. "He's a step ahead of me. Pretty aware for a drunk."

Dean swallows, his fingers twitching as he resists the urge to lean forward, to touch and reassure Jimmy in any way he can.

"It started when I was…God, I must have been ten," Castiel says, cocking his head to one side. "Didn't know it was wrong or bad, at first. Just thought…just thought that was affection. The kind between a father and a son." He shrugs slightly, shaking his head. "By the time I realized it was wrong, I guess I was just used to it."

"I…" Jimmy's eyes flash to him, wide and blue and dark, and Dean doesn't have anything to say. Can't say a damn thing – what do you say to someone who has been through such Hell like that?

"He wasn't violent, at first," Castiel says, shrugging one shoulder. "I mean, he was just…Then the drinking started and…" He sighs softly, running a hand through his hair and wincing at the tug on his fingers when he does so – he keeps forgetting about his injured hand. "But, I mean…it's just easier this way."

"Why?" Dean asks, finally finding his voice. He swallows when Jimmy fixes the full force of his blue eyes on him. "Why did you stay? What made it easier?"

Castiel swallows again, looking away. "Do you know what happens to kids in Foster care, Dean?" he whispers, looking back to his friend. He turns slightly, his legs falling asleep from how he's sat on the chair, and he gently rolls his ankles, pressing his lips together when they make a cracking sound. Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, me neither," he says with another small smile. "I didn't want to find out. Rather the Devil you know and all that. It'll…" He pauses, takes a deep breath, fingers flexing. "It'll be better now."

"How can you know that?" Dean whispers.

Jimmy smiles a little at him. "Because I know my father."

For a long moment, they are silent, staring at anything but each other's faces. The silence stretches on and on and, despite everything, it isn't uncomfortable. Not even close. It's just…restful. Like everything is fallen into place and now they're just waiting for the pieces to settle.

Finally, Dean clears his throat. "I want to be able to help you," he whispers, looking over at his friend. "I mean…Ruby doesn't talk much about her parents and what happened at her house, but it's not hard to guess. And what I saw…Christ, Jimmy, I can't stop thinking about it. About how he…" He winces, stopping himself short. "I just…I want to help. Want you to know that if you need to talk, or run and hide…I mean, the Winchester house is always open."

The smile feels forced but in reality it's just…it seems like so little to offer. Dean wants to do so much _more_ – wants to shield Jimmy from his father totally, take him in and keep him safe from his father and Michael and anyone else who would want to do him harm.

He just wants to _help_. Needs to help.

"Ruby saw it straight away," comes the reply after a long moment. "I wondered how she had seen it. Makes sense, I guess." Jimmy smiles slightly, the expression wistful and bitter. "That's a very kind offer, Dean, but no. It's only a few more months. I can handle it."

"Jimmy -."

"Dean. Stop." Blue eyes flash hard for a moment, ice overtaking the normally calm water. "Don't get involved."

The familiarity of that order strikes Dean hard in the gut, and Dean bites his lower lip, casting his eyes submissively to the ground. "Where's your dad now?" he asks.

Castiel shrugs. "Haven't seen him since that night," he replies, a small furrow forming in his brow. "Haven't heard him moving around, either." A little bit of worry creeps into his voice, then, and Dean must sense it because his eyes go dark and he sucks in a breath.

"Maybe we should…check on him?" he asks, voice terse and tense like he wishes anything but health on that monster, and Castiel can relate, but now is not the time. He makes a move to stand when Castiel nods slowly, something dark lingering in his eyes. "I'll search the house, you call his work."

Castiel nods, heading towards the phone and Dean makes his way upstairs. The hallway is barren, bare and lonely like the rest of the house except for that giant Grandfather clock on one end. Carefully he moves towards the only open door, pushing it open just slightly. The interior is sickeningly familiar, right down to the blood splatter that Jimmy hadn't quite managed to wipe away yet. The cot looks cold, stiff and unwelcoming, the boxes piled up in a corner speak of a hasty getaway, the open but unpacked suitcase still lying in front of a closed wardrobe.

He steps back out, and can hear Jimmy talking on the phone. He heads towards the other end of the hallway and stops – there is the sound of running water. Faint, but definitely there. He hurries forward and pushes open the door at the end of the hall, and the sound grows steadily. The en-suite bathroom's light is on and the door is open. He goes inside.

Dean stops dead at the sight that greets him. "Oh my God," he whispers, eyes wide as he presses the back of his hand against his mouth. The floor is wet, the steady drip-drip-dribble of the showerhead pouring icy water down on the prone body lying in the tub, still mostly clothed and soaked to the skin. The blood seeping down the side of the tub and mixing with the water draws his attention – red against pale green. "Jimmy! Come here!"

Immediately there are heavy footsteps running up the stairs and Jimmy runs into the bathroom. "They haven't seen him in -." He stops. Dean can feel his breathing and the heat of his body against his shoulder and side and resists the urge to push him away so he doesn't have to see.

"Is he…?" Carefully, Jimmy steps around him and Dean thinks to pull him back just in time. "Let me go!" he demands, his voice harsh and raw around the edges.

"Don't touch the body," Dean whispers, his voice carefully neutral, but his hands are shaking. "Call nine-one-one or something. If he is dead, we don't want our DNA or any evidence anywhere near him."

For a long second, Jimmy just stares at him, uncomprehending, and then he presses his lips together and dials the number, holding the phone to his ear as he runs a hand through his hair. The hand holding the phone toys absently with the long sleeve of his hoodie.

"Hello? I need an ambulance. My father's passed out in the bathroom – he's bleeding and possibly going into shock. Head wound. Castiel Novak."

When he hangs up, Dean is staring at him. Castiel can't quite figure out why – he's trembling, only barely aware of how badly his hands are shaking once he hangs up. "Oh my God," he whispers, and walks away from the bathroom. Dean, after a moment, dumbly follows him. "Oh my God…" It seems all that Jimmy – _Castiel_ – is capable of saying.

_Castiel_ _Novak._

_Castiel._

_CN-Network._

Oh my God, he's Castiel.

Dean takes a deep breath and forces the thought away for a moment – obviously the teen is in the middle of a breakdown and will _not_ appreciate being grilled by Dean at that moment. Dean interrupts Castiel's frantic pacing and grabs his forearms, turning him to look at him.

"Listen to me," he says, forcing his voice to remain steady, to be strong for his friend and everything else that Castiel might be to him. "You've called the paramedics. They're on their way. There is nothing more you can do, so stop worrying. You didn't do anything wrong."

Castiel blinks at him through disbelieving blue eyes. "Didn't do anything wrong?" he repeats, incredulous and just a little bit angry. "Don't you understand?" Tears well up in his eyes, making them shine more brightly than usual, and he turns away from Dean, wrenching himself from the teen's grip. "I was _so close_. So Goddamn close." He takes a deep breath, running both hands through his hair. "And now they're going to think I did it, and then didn't report it. I mean…God's sake, Dean, it's been _days_. And I…if they dig deep enough, they'll find enough history to charge me with murder. Or manslaughter. Or something. I can't…" The first few tears being to spill over, then. "What if he does die?" he whispers, turning back to Dean. "I have no idea how to organize his affairs or anything – I can't afford this house. I won't be able to leave."

A harsh, bitter laugh is forced out of him as he sneers at nothing at all. "He'll win in the end. He always does."

"Don't say things like that," Dean demands, stepping forward and into Castiel's line of sight. He knows Castiel is older, smarter, so much more _logical_ and knowledgeable than Dean could ever hope to become, but at that moment, he is a frightened and lost child and Dean knows how to take care of those. "Listen, nothing is going to happen to you, do you hear me? You can come and live with us if shit hits the fan. And if they try and charge you with his murder, we'll fight tooth and nail to get you out of it. I believe you didn't do it."

Castiel snorts, smirking. "And what if I did?" he asks, voice barely audible as he looks over at Dean. There is something dark, just a little bit feral, that flashes across his face before it is gone just as quickly. It makes Dean pause.

Dean blinks at him for a moment, and then he swallows. "I don't believe that," he replies strongly, pressing his lips together. "You aren't capable of something like that."

The next laugh Castiel lets out is even worse than the one before. It is mean and bitter and completely defeated. They don't say another word until the paramedics arrive.

* * *

><p>Castiel's father goes into cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital. He has lost a lot of blood and had hypothermia by the time the paramedics got to him. They are five minutes from the hospital when his heart gives out and he cannot be revived.<p>

Castiel doesn't cry. He can't right now – can't even spare a thought for the man lying dead in the ambulance bed as they load him off and, instead of wheeling him to the ER, turn towards the morgue. It seems almost…anticlimactic. A villain like that deserves a lot more pomp and circumstance, or at least an explosion.

He stands outside the hospital doors until Dean and his family drives up in their gorgeous, sleek Impala. The familiar rumble of the engine is soothing and, without saying a word, he climbs in and lets Dean crawl in next to him, the younger teen's arm slung around the back of his shoulders.

"Do you want to come stay with us for a while, Jimmy?"

A pause. "If you have the space."

That is all they say in the car on the long drive back to Lawrence. During that time, the dinnertime hour on Jo's show comes and goes and Castiel listens to three more of Dean's songs. Songs he's never heard before.

They must be new.

The Winchester house is nothing like his own. It is bright and cheery and, absurd though the notion is; it looks like it gets more sunlight. The lower floor is open plan and bright with the setting sun. There is a backyard outside that looks well tended, flanked by thick bushes and roses and trees. It feels like stepping into Eden when he walks into the warm room, filled with the smells of lasagna as Mary seamlessly adds another person to their table.

He doesn't question when Dean brings him a suitcase full of clothes from his room – how Dean knew where to look or what to find, he doesn't know and he doesn't much care. Somehow, the teen even knew to include his laptop, charger, and the little red binder full of Bal's notes in the suitcase. Dean's eyes are dark when he hands those over and Castiel can suspect as to why.

It all seems so Goddamn surreal. His father is dead. His father is _dead_. He doesn't have to worry about staying up late enough to keep up with the man. He doesn't have to figure out ways to sneak to the shed at three in the morning to get some fortification of his own. He doesn't need to ever skip out on a shower because it's too loud, or go to bed with blood and semen staining his thighs.

He doesn't need to do a Goddamn thing to protect himself anymore and that terrifies him.

"Mister Novak, we're just here following up on the investigation into your father's death. We need you to provide your statement, if you're willing."

Castiel doesn't remember calling the police. Maybe it was the hospital.

"I last saw my father on Tuesday night. He leaves home early and comes back late. I never realized he was missing or gone."

"…Mister Novak…" God, he really hates it when she calls him that – it reminds him of his father. "Would you care to explain the bruises and blood we found on your father…and yourself? Was there an altercation on the last night you saw him?"

Castiel's eyes flash. "I suppose you could say that. He drank a lot. He got violent. I defended myself. But only to get him to leave the room. I never followed him out."

The Winchesters are accommodating as Hell, and supportive when the police get involved. They end up writing it off as an unfortunate accident – a drunk man stumbling around in his bathroom and slipping in the wrong place. The constant flow of water had washed away a lot of Castiel's DNA so there was no suspicion of foul play.

It seems too damn perfect. Too…_neat. _Castiel spends his spare time waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Thank you for your time, Mister Novak. We know this must have been a hard day." The woman smiles kindly, in a way that reminds Castiel of Mary and Dean's smile. He fights the urge to snap something sarcastically back at her – 'hard day' doesn't even begin to cover it. "There's just going to be the matter of your guardianship, but I think we can leave that for another day."

Castiel's mouth twists with…an emotion he's not quite sure he can identify. Anger, possibly. He feels almost offended that the man had made such life a living hell and then gone and _died_ before he could actually _escape_. It feels like an empty victory.

"Is there any way…" Castiel looks up, almost surprised when he finds John and Mary standing at the entryway to the room the officer had taken him into for questioning and to give his statement. They are standing together, their hands hanging between them with fingers interlaced. At their looks, Mary presses her lips together, looking up to her husband, who gives her hand a squeeze and speaks again. "I mean, assuming Jimmy's willin' and all…if we could maybe let him stay here until he's eighteen. He won't be able to keep that house and by the time all the paper work for Foster care's done he'll be a man anyway." The man trails off, lifting his shoulders in a shrug, and for a moment, Castiel can only blink at them.

No one is that nice.

The policewoman hums for a moment, tapping her pen against her lip. "I'll have a word with my supervisor and see what happens," she says, getting to her feet. "And maybe I'll fudge the paperwork a little bit. But I can't guarantee anything, Mister Winchester – the law's the law."

"Of course, we understand that," John replies, smiling and shaking her hand and then stepping to one side so she can shake Mary's. "Thank you for your time, Miss Talbot." The policewoman smiles again and Mary escorts her out, leaving Castiel and John in the room alone.

Immediately the teen gets to his feet. "Why would you do that for me?" he demands, anger and confusion lacing his tone.

John is an impressive looking man. Castiel hasn't seen much of him – he assumes the man goes to work early and comes home late like his own father does – did – whatever. His thick dark brown hair match Sam's and his eyes are soft and green like Dean's. His features, though covered by a rough shadow of facial hair, seem tired but content, like he has everything he could ever want in life. His body, though still fit from an average working man, has a few layers of roundness to it from a life of taking it easier than he used to in his youth. He's tall, much taller than Castiel and Dean both, but not intimidating with it. Castiel likes him, likes what he sees when he looks at him.

But he cannot understand why this man would open his home to him; a stranger and an orphan.

John just blinks at him before a warm smile breaks out over his face, and he takes a step forward, placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder. The grip hurts a little and makes his body throb, but he bears it because he understands that the man is trying to be comforting. "Listen, son, there are a lot of people who would see someone who's been through what you have and won't do a damn thing to stop it. Well, see, our family, we ain't like that. We fight for our own."

"I'm not one of you," Castiel whispers, swallowing thickly.

John cocks his head to one side, pressing his lips together. "Well, you see, that's what Ruby used to say, too," he says, taking his hand away and Castiel resists the urge to rub away the ache of John's grip – it hadn't been intended to hurt but it still does; a dull ache in his bones. "And I got to thinkin' – I mean, men like your father, and men like you. They don't accept charity. Don't think good things can happen to them. Don't feel like they belong. Well, if you feel that way, no one's keepin' you here. But Dean really likes you, and Sam and Ruby do too, and I think you'd fit in well here. You can even pay rent if it makes you happy, until you're eighteen. I ain't no accountant, son, but I know you can't afford a house like that, assumin' they let you keep it at all. So." He shrugs. "The offer's there. Now let's go – I think dinner's ready."

Castiel ends up sitting at the other end of the table, between Sam and Ruby – Ruby keeps casting him these sad, fond little smiles, her eyes lingering over the bruises on his face and his still-bandaged fingers when he reaches for his glass of water. There is mostly silence, broken only once when Mary asks how the school play auditions went. Castiel pays attention enough only to hear Dean's response – that he had gotten the part of Fiyero, Ruby of Nessa and Sam of Doctor Dillamond – and to realize that he will have to go back for his script because it hadn't been with the stuff Dean brought over.

Assuming he's staying at all.

He hasn't quite figured out what he's going to do about that.

He finishes first and cleans his plate, then everyone else's as they finish one-by-one. The time between, he uses to familiarize himself in the kitchen and learn where the Tupperware is, which he fills with the leftover lasagna, though there isn't much. He just feels…restless. He feels like there is something he needs to do, needs to go see again because it feels too still, too quiet like the calm before the storm.

The Winchesters had said he could stay in the guest room until they figure out a more permanent solution – what they mean by that he can't even begin to guess, but he appreciates the space in itself. It is warm, cozy, _homely_, he realizes after a moment. His very presence seems to darken the warm blue paint on the walls and the cheery sunrise mural painted on the ceiling. He doesn't unpack, doesn't learn where things are. He doesn't even want to get out his computer and 'talk to Dean'. Seems much less novel when the boy's actually just sleeping across the hall from him.

Speak of the Devil – at that moment Castiel hears a soft knock on his door. He's not used to knocking. Strange as it seems he actually fights the urge to stay in place and wait until the damn door is broken down. Then, softly, almost wishing himself to be too quiet, he says, "Come in."

It's Ruby. Castiel can't help but feel a little surprised, and something else that he won't bother to name – it would have been…just, might have been _nice_ if Dean had come to spend some time with him. But of course that is a foolish notion and grounded in something that Castiel doesn't have, so he doesn't spare it another thought.

He smiles at the girl, moving away from the door so she can enter the space or remain where she is at her leisure. "Dean saw what your dad did," she says, swallowing a little and stepping inside, letting the door close behind her.

Castiel nods. "Yeah, he said."

"Does he know…who you are, too?"

The older teen shrugs one shoulder, pressing his lips together. "Not as far as I know," he replies, and then moves to sit on the bed and gestures for her to join him. It seems silly, that they might share such a past as they do and bond over it – what a horrible thing to bond over – but if she is seeking out his friendship then who is he to deny her? Besides, he likes Ruby – likes her quiet earnestness and her too-knowing brown eyes and her soft voice. So different from what his family could ever be like.

For a moment the girl fidgets with the blue-and-white-striped throw, her nails toying with the frayed edges and tassels at the corners. "I can remember everything my dad would do. Well, what his friends would do," she says, pressing her lips together and taking a deep breath. "When Dean saw me, he just knew. Maybe I wasn't hiding it as well as I thought I was. But he saw me, just walking home one day with my dad from daycare, and he just…The next day he found me at the park with some friends, took me to one side and said I didn't have to live like that, and to talk to him and his parents about it. Within a year the authorities were called and I was living here." She laughs, then, shaking her head. "I just…I don't know how he didn't see it with you. I could…it seemed more obvious when I think back on it and I'm sure Dean's thinking the same thing."

"You never notice when you're close to someone," Castiel replies, putting a hand on her shoulder like John had done with him. "Sometimes it's really hard to tell when a friend is hurting, if that's all you've ever seen them do."

Ruby blinks up at him, taking in what he's said for a moment. "Yeah, I guess," she replies, shrugging in the same way Sam, Dean, Mary, and now Castiel, does. "But I'm so grateful to them, Cas, you have no idea. And I know they would do the same thing for you in a heartbeat. So just…" She sighs, taking his hand from her shoulder and wrapping her fingers through is. They're so small and much darker when compared to his pale hands, and the fractured fingers prevent her from really doing it right, but it doesn't really matter. "I would really, really like it if you stayed with us. I know Dean and Sam would, too, and it's not that much of a sacrifice if you really think about it. If you don't want to, then that's fine too, but…"

She trails off, biting her lip again, and Castiel understands. He lifts his arm, wrapping it around her shoulders and hugging her tightly, his free hand petting through her hair and supporting her head when she buries her face in his neck, other hand gripping tight at his shoulder. It hurts again, but she's squeezing so hard and making muffled sobs against his skin and he can't push her away. He lets her hug him, hugs her back and lets her cry for however long they sit there, waiting for the night to get darker and for Ruby to run dry.

"I'd like to think my sister would have been like you," Castiel finally whispers, when Ruby goes quiet against his neck, her breathing still hiccup-y and uneven from tears and his hoodie and t-shirt are soaked through.

That makes her pull away, as she wipes at her puffy eyes and clears her face of tears. "You have a sister?"

Castiel smiles a little, nodding once. "She was three years' younger than me, by a different woman than my mother." He pauses at that. "Well, maybe – she was blonde. Had my father's eyes, though. Her name was Claire." He looks away, down at the floor, pressing his lips together. "She died soon after she was born – S.I.D.S., or something like that. Anyway…" Castiel pauses, shrugging a little again. "Didn't really get to know her, but I think if I had, if we'd _both_ been in the situation we were in, I would have made more effort to get out of there. For her sake, you know? Or maybe our father would have been happier."

"What happened to…to her mother?" Ruby asks, still wiping at her face, and Castiel just shakes his head. "I'm so sorry, Cas," she says, reaching for his hand again, and he lets her take it.

"I was only three," he says. "Didn't even really know about her until I found…I had one picture of her. Three days after she was born, little wispy blonde hair and all. And blue eyes. Such big blue eyes." He shakes his head again. "Not really enough to get attached to, you know?"

He forces a smile, and isn't sure how well he succeeds. He must not do a very good job because Ruby hugs him again, for less time this time, but harder, like she's trying to will her strength and love to go into him and make a home there.

He used to be a better actor than this. He wonders, briefly, if it's just something about Winchesters that manages to strip him down so completely. He hugs her back and when she pulls away, he lets her go. He doesn't know what time it is because there is no clock in this room, but he is physically and emotionally exhausted, and when he goes to sleep, he dreams of absolutely nothing.

There doesn't seem to be anything left to dream about. He has nowhere to go.

* * *

><p>"Cas?"<p>

The name jerks him awake more than anything else, despite how softly it's whispered. No one with that low of a voice has called him that in a _very_ long time. He sits up, blindly fumbling for his bedside lamp, and squints over at the dark shadow beside the door.

"Can I come in?"

Dean. It's Dean. "Yeah, sure," he says, blinking a few times to clear his sight and rubbing his eyes to get rid of the sticky crust of sleep around them. When he looks back at Dean again, the bed has dipped under the teen's weight, and he's sitting on the side of the bed, staring in Castiel's direction. The window lets in the bright light of the moon and it illuminates Dean's face, his features accented heavily, lashes casting long shadows across his cheeks and shows how his forearms are dusted with hair and freckles. He's wearing a thin, loose t-shirt and sweatpants, riding low at the back and exposing just a thin lip of skin, the shirt collar loose as well and dipping down so the moonlight can play over bone and the flexing tendon in his neck.

"Already people are talkin'," he begins, fidgeting slightly and looking away. "Michael called tonight. Said you obviously ganked him. I imagine the whole town'll be buzzing by tomorrow."

Castiel raises one shoulder in a shrug. "I can handle rumors. Do you believe me when I say I didn't do it?" he asks. The younger teen blinks at him for a moment, his head slightly tilted to one side, and then he nods. Castiel smiles, letting out a breath he didn't quite realize he was holding. "Then that's all that matters."

Dean smirks a little, seeing him, his eyes dark green-hazel in the bedside lamp light. "You never would'a told me, would you?"

Castiel just blinks at him. "It wasn't my place to tell. I don't introduce myself as 'Jimmy – rape victim'," he replies sarcastically.

Dean just snorts – it's a sound way too bitter for someone like him to ever make, and it takes Castiel a moment to realize that it sounds like what _he_ does. "Don't even…" The younger teen runs a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. "That's not what I'm talking about, _Cas_."

Cas. He'd called him by his name. "Oh." It seems like all he can say.

"Yeah." Dean snorts again, turning this time towards Castiel. His leg hooks up on the bed, the other foot still resting on the floor and the sweats stretch tight over his thighs and knees. "You were never gonna even tell me, were you? Just waltz in and waltz out and I'da never fucking known."

Castiel bites his lip, looking down and fidgeting with the edge of his sheets. "How did you…?"

"The call," Dean answers, rolling his eyes when Castiel looks up in confusion. "When you called the paramedics. You used your real name. Castiel Novak – probably didn't even realize." Dean laughs again, a low, bitter laugh that reminds Castiel way too much of himself. "And you would have just never said a word. You'd've been 'Jimmy' forever to me."

"You're angry," Castiel whispers.

"Of course I'm angry!" The teen rises to his feet, pacing to the edge of the room, which isn't far to go because it's not that big, before returning and plopping himself down in the middle of the bed, facing Castiel. "Damn it, Cas, don't you even _realize_…When I went into your room, saw what kind of place you were living in…before I even met you, I liked you. I _liked_ you, you son of a bitch. I thought you were…you were…"

Castiel cocks a brow at him. "A man in his late twenties trying to get the new up-and-coming bands for his producer to sign?" he asks, cocking his head to one side. "Dean, if you'd have known who I really was, would you have agreed so readily to letting me hear your music?"

"Maybe!" Dean snaps, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "How the hell am I supposed to know, Cas? I wasn't even…fuck, before I knew you online the songs were…they were okay. You made them good – you made them _brilliant_. And I loved it. I trusted your judgment, most of the time. That wouldn't have made any difference, no matter your age."

"I disagree," Castiel replies smoothly with another one-shouldered shrug. "But then again, we'll never know. Here I am." He holds his arms out wide; "A seventeen-year-old orphan with a list of sins a mile long and more emotional baggage than anyone could know what to do with. Still want me?"

Dean just looks at him for a long moment, his teeth sinking slowly into his lower lip and dragging out. Castiel can only watch, enthralled with the movement – with everything. His eyes search Dean's face, looking for rejection, for hatred, for disappointment. Everything he's used to seeing in a man's eyes.

Finally, Dean lets out a breath. "Of course I do," he says softly, disbelief in his voice like he can't understand why Castiel would ask such a question. His eyes are liquid and warm and it breaks Castiel's heart to see Dean that way.

There is another pause, each of them just watching each other, searching for an answer when they're not quite sure of the question, before Dean finally coughs, breaking the silence, and breaking their gaze, looking down and away at some point next to Castiel's knee. "Castiel…is an Angel's name, isn't it?"

"The Angel of Thursday," Castiel says with a slight nod. "My mother was, apparently, very religious."

"Do you believe in Angels, Cas?" Dean asks, his voice so low that it's barely audible, and when Dean looks back up, his expression is so completely open that, for perhaps the first time in his life, no sarcastic reply comes to mind.

He is honest.

"I used to," is what he says, biting his lip as he thinks back. "But then…I don't know. I guess I stopped praying because help never came. I had no Angel watching over me or anything, so I just…" He shrugs again. "After a while I guess I just wanted to believe in no God than an apathetic one."

"I believe in Angels," Dean says after another moment, his voice sincere and his eyes earnest. "I believe they walk among us, all the time, and they help and intercede when they can. I really believe that – have done since I was four years old."

Castiel blinks. "What happened then?" he asks.

Dean bites his lip softly, hesitating for a moment as he looks down and toys with the edge of Castiel's duvet. "When I was four," he begins, taking a breath in and letting it out again, "there was a fire. None of us were awake, though – it started in Sammy's room. Firemen said that one of the nightlights had shorted out or something and caught on fire."

He pauses for a moment, fingers tensing around the blanket. He can't remember much of that night – it was a long time ago, after all – but there are flashes. Panicked crying from Sam's room and his mother hurrying down towards it, screaming out for his father when she'd seen the smoke. "Dad told me to take Sammy and run and he was right behind us. I could have sworn he was right behind us. Our mother followed us out and one of the beams broke and hurt me and when I turned around I couldn't see him. Knew he was trapped there. She kept screaming for help but no one was coming and the fire department had been called but they are stationed too far away to ever get here in time and I thought he was going to die." Dean takes another deep breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment and a small furrow forms between his brows as he tries to filter past the hazy memories, to try and tell his story and make his point.

"Michael's family was one of the first ones to get there," he says, "even though they lived on the other side of town. It's like they _knew_. And when they got there, and realized it would be too late for the firemen, his father ran in." Dean smirks a little, shaking his head. "Just…ran, right into the building. And Michael and Lucifer and Gabriel all stayed with Sammy and me, making sure Sammy wasn't crying and Michael just hugged me really tight and said everything would be okay, his father would get mine out. And he did – just waltzed out of there carrying my father like nothing was wrong." He blinks up at Castiel, his eyes sharpening as he returns to the present. "They let us stay with them until we found a new house. And Michael's just…he's always taken care of me since then. Made sure I was okay – he tutored me when I was failing classes, helped me babysit Sammy, or look for him when the little brat would try and run off on his own…"

"Oh yeah, I bet he's just a basket of daisies," Castiel mutters under his breath with a roll of his bright blue eyes.

Dean huffs a small laugh, looking down again. A small flush colors his cheeks and he smiles a little. "Yeah, well, it just seems natural, you know; when someone's been taking care of you all your life…to kind of want to…"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Castiel says after a moment, shifting in bed so he's sat up more against his headboard. "I'm sure Michael's perfectly pleasant. But I don't believe in Angels, Dean. And if they do exist they certainly don't care about people like me."

"But…" Dean frowns, looking over at Castiel with a confused expression on his face. "Don't you get it? You _do _have one. Because it's your own…like…" Castiel just raises an eyebrow at Dean, folding his arms across his torso, nails digging into the skin of his inner elbows. "You don't have one watching over you because you _are_ your own Angel. You saved yourself – you're strong enough to be able to do that."

"What makes you think that?" Castiel asks, with no small amount of derision in his voice.

"Because Castiel saved Jimmy," Dean replies, shifting on the bed so he's on his knees, the full force of his earnest eyes focused on Castiel's face. "I was…I was talking to you online that night, of course you know that, and because of that I was able to see what happened to you. I could see and that meant I could stop it. I could help you – I was going to help you, but you never showed up to school and I didn't want to make it worse at home, where _he _could have been there."

"An Angel didn't make my father slip and fall in the bathtub, Dean – alcohol and physics did," Castiel replies blandly.

"Look at it how you want," Dean snaps in reply, "but your father got hurt the same night I saw and you were too busy trying to get me to stand down to make sure he was okay. That's what I see." He pauses, then, sitting back on his heels and biting his lower lip, his fingers curling nervously into his sweatpants. His hands look more tanned in the bedside lamp light, the moonlight hitting the side of his face and making him look so much younger than he already is. Castiel sighs and averts his eyes, his hands landing on Dean's ringless finger. He wonders where it went. "Michael tried to get me to break all ties with you," he continues after a moment. "He called you a demon, like Ruby – he doesn't like either of you and for the longest time I've been trying to convince him they you're both good people -."

"By selling your mouth and ass?" Castiel snaps in reply, surprised at his vehemence. "Don't you see that he's using you? He treats you like shit, Dean – all the times that I've seen you two together, he treats you like his property."

"Yeah, well, that's kind of over," Dean replies shortly, sitting back with a sigh so his legs are crossed in front of him, bracing his forearms on his thighs. "I can't…can't be with someone who won't accept my friends and family." He sighs again, running a hand through his hair. "Starting to think maybe I've outgrown Angels."

Castiel wants to say something to that – wants to disagree, reassure Dean that there are still people here to look after and care for him – but how can he when he's not quite sure about it himself? Regardless of whether Dean has Michael, Castiel knows Dean has his family and very close friends and he doesn't _need_ someone like Michael in his life.

So he doesn't say anything. "What time is it?" he asks after a long moment.

Dean blinks, then smiles guiltily. "It was almost three when I came in here…so sometime after that." He sighs again, getting to his feet. "I should let you go to sleep. And there's school tomorrow. You coming?"

"Do I look like I've had the crap beaten out of me recently?" Castiel asks with a small smirk. Dean gives him a quick once-over, and smiles, and shakes his head. "Then sure. I should anyway. Got work to catch up on so…"

"Yeah, alright," Dean replies, putting his hand on the door frame, fingers hesitating over the handle. "There's no alarm clock in here so I guess I'll just knock to wake you up if you want…"

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel replies, settling back down into bed and pulling the covers up around his neck and shoulders.

Dean smiles, opening the door. "Good night, Cas," comes the faint whisper, and then the door clicks closed, and Castiel listens to the soft padding of Dean's feet down the hall and to his own room. The rest of the house is silent, disturbed only by a clock ticking somewhere in the next room and the occasional creak and groan of old pipes. Castiel closes his eyes and settles down into a mattress way more comfortable than his cot, pillows soft and scented like they've just been washed. The blankets are warm and the moonlight is soft on his face when he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Ruby is awake and waiting for Dean to come back to the bedroom, sitting on Dean's bed while Sam snores gently in his own. She looks up at him with nervous, wide eyes. "Are you angry with me?" she asks softly, fingers nervously threading and unthreading with each other.<p>

He smiles and shakes his head. "No. I understand that he wanted you to keep things a secret," he replies, sitting down and letting her curl up next to him, resting his head on hers. "I just feel like…like he's a completely new person. I still see Jimmy when I look at him and putting him together with _Cas_ is, like…I just don't understand it."

"Well, Cas is a bit of a jerk," she says after a while, making Dean snort in surprised laughter. "Jimmy seems a lot nicer. But at least he won't have to hide anymore."

Dean hums in agreement, stroking a hand over her hair and down her back, and then repeating when her hair runs out. "I hope he feels that way, too. I hope he stays."

"Me too," she replies. Her hands reach forward and wrap around his torso, hugging him tightly while he continues to pet her hair. "I wouldn't want to be in his shoes right now. Imagine what school's gonna be like."

Dean bites his lip, thinking about it – it's true. Rumor spreads here faster than wildfire and once word gets out that Jimmy's dad's dead, it won't be long until paranoid and malicious people will start muttering under their breaths and spreading rumors about him. Especially if Michael spearheads the attack.

God, Michael…what will he do about _him_?

"I'm afraid for him," Ruby says, clinging just a little tighter.

Dean sighs and gives her a tight squeeze. "Me too, Rubles, but we're his family now, and Winchesters protect their own."

He feels her smile against his chest.

* * *

><p>"Well?" The question is short, snappy – it's bitterly cold, a northern wind blowing hard and fast, and the teen pulls his windbreaker more tightly around himself, digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans.<p>

"Baby Novak's sleepin' with the Winchesters tonight," comes the reply. A sink of teeth into lips, another low growl later while Michael takes that information in.

"Damn it," he whispers, shaking his head. "I had hoped it wouldn't come to this." Then, his eyes flash to his companion. "Hit me," he says, taking a step forward.

Immediately the second teen retreats. "Woah, what?" he asks, startled, hands raised in front of him as though Michael had been the attacker instead of the one asking to be hit.

Michael growls again in impatience. _"Hit me_," he demands, reaching forward and grabbing his companion's wrist, pulling them closer together. For a moment, their shared exhales mix before getting swept away by the constant wind. "I have a plan."

"How is hurting yourself – _making me hurt you_, even – going to help?"

Michael's mouth curls into a small grin, sky-blue eyes flashing. "Just trust me, little brother," he says, pulling the other man close again. "I'll make it all okay. You just gotta throw the first punch. People are gonna start talkin' – gonna start wondering if maybe little Cas is just a bit too outside their comfort zone. If they find out he got in a fight with me it'll spread like wildfire, it'll -."

"That's stupid," Lucifer replies with a gasp, pulling away again. The wind blows his honey-blonde hair in front of his face, shielding his eyes from Michael's sight. "Novak didn't kill his dad. It was an accident."

"They're callin' it that?" Michael asks.

"Talbot told me. They're writin' him off, Michael. He's a free man."

"Then the rumors will drive him away," Michael replies sharply, stepping forward again, and Lucifer steps back, his back coming into contact with the hard brick wall of the school gymnasium. "If you don't do this I'll find someone who will. But I'd rather keep it in the family, Luci."

For a long moment, the two brothers just stare at each other, Lucifer looking torn, his fingers curling absently into a fist by his side. He doesn't want to hit his brother – thinks this entire plan is stupid and, frankly, he kind of likes Jimmy 'Cas' Novak. The guy is incredibly smart and, though he isn't the most talkative person in the world, doesn't shy away from Lucifer simply because of his brother. His openness towards anyone's friendship appeals to the other boy.

He sighs, shoulders slumping, and shakes his head, straightening so Michael has to take a step away. He holds up his fits between them. "Any favorite areas you don't want me to mess up?"

Michael grins. "Just make it look good, little brother," he says, right before the first hit lands.

* * *

><p><em>"Downstairs the enemy sleeps, leaving the TV on, watching all the dreams we had turn into static – static." <em>

Castiel shifts uncomfortably in the front seat of the Impala. Ruby and Sam are in the back, looking unusually morose and he resists the urge to try and strike up conversation, knowing anything he could have to say would fall flat on their ears. He feels like crap – he hadn't slept well, of course, and his entire body is still throbbing in pain. He isn't used to sleeping on an actual _bed_ and, crazy as it sounds, he thinks it actually messed his body up more to do so.

His face looks a little better – his cheek and eye are still puffy, bruised around the edges so it looks like someone broke his nose, and he still has a large split on his lip which is also swollen, but at least he can open his eye all the way now. His knuckles still hurt whenever he tries to move them but at least he _can_ now, and he counts that as a bonus. It no longer hurts to breathe too deeply.

_"No matter what I do, it'll never change – I'm never good enough."_

He hasn't heard this song yet, but it sounds old – Dean's voice is less controlled, less finely tuned and, though it helps convey the emotion of the song, Castiel doesn't like it. It's singing about all the wrong things.

"You need to get over Michael," he finally says when Dean pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine. Dean's eyes flash over to him and Ruby and Sam freeze where they were attempting to get out of the car.

"What was that?" Dean asks, a certain edge in his voice as he fingers at his own door handle, half-opening it so he can beat a hasty retreat should he need to.

Castiel mirrors him, opening his door and putting one foot out onto the concrete. "That guy did some pretty serious emotional damage, Dean – even you should be able to see that. The fact that you're hurting right now…" What? Makes him angry? Hurts him too? Well, yeah. All of those things. "You need to start moving on."

Dean growls sharply, shoving his door open enough that it recoils and catches him when he steps out, and he makes another frustrated sound before slamming it closed. "You don't know about me and Michael, okay? It's over, I'm dealing with it. That what you want?"

"I want you to start acting like the person I know you actually are," Castiel snaps back, stepping out of the car and rounding the front to face Dean. Sam and Ruby are scrambling out, their eyes wide and faces shocked and they look like they can't decide whether they should just flee or stay and make sure nothing bad happens. "Instead of the submissive little _bitch_ Michael wanted you to be."

Without thinking, Dean lunges, but Castiel is fast and has had to deal with this all his life. Within a second he has Dean in an elbow lock against the side of the Impala, the younger teen bent back against the metal frame, Castiel standing close and pinning him with his weight. Dean's eyes flash and he makes a low, angry sound in his chest, glaring at Castiel's impassive face.

Then, the older teen smirks. "There you are," he whispers, letting Dean go after another brief squeeze.

"What the hell was that about?" Dean demands, rubbing his elbow and wincing slightly at the subtle ache. Castiel's fingers curl for a moment and then dig into the pocket of his hoodie.

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, biting his swollen, hurt lower lip. His eyes flash with something unidentifiable. "I -."

"Dean."

The four go tense, recognizing the voice. It's Michael, and he's standing on the other side of the Impala, his sky-blue eyes dark and concerned when he looks towards Dean. When the younger teen turns around, he can't fight back a gasp as he sees his ex-boyfriend.

"Michael," Castiel mutters before Dean can say anything. "You look like crap."

The older teen's eyes flash and his thin mouth curls up in a sly smile. He shrugs. But it's true – he looks like he's taken a few good blows to the face, his cheek bruised heavily – freshly – and swollen up, one of his eyes blackened.

"That's fresh," Castiel goes on to note, making Dean raise an eyebrow.

"Who managed that?" he asks curiously.

Michael chuckles again and shrugs, both shoulders – Castiel never thought that that would look weird to him, but it does. He's so used to the Winchester one-shoulder. "So, _Cas_," Michael says, straightening up and walking around the Impala slowly, like a jungle cat stalking its prey. Dean catches Sam and Ruby's eyes and Sam wordlessly bites his lip, taking Ruby's hand and leads her away, leaving the three boys to themselves in the relatively secluded area of the edge of the parking lot. Dean knows they'll keep an eye out and get someone should things get heated. "I heard about your dad. That must be hard," Michael continues, his voice heavy with fake sympathy like sour honey over leather.

Castiel's eyes narrow and he takes a step forward, firmly placing himself between Michael and Dean as the older boy continues to advance. "I'm dealing," he replies flatly, his voice giving nothing away as he faces up against Michael.

The older boy chuckles. "Yeah, I imagine you would have to," he says cryptically, cocking his head to one side. "Worked out pretty well for you, though, didn't it?"

For a second, they stand silent, Michael searching Castiel's face for any sign of weakness, of fear – he finds none but is not deterred. He flashes Dean and Castiel a thousand-watt smile. "I'll see you both later. Good talk." With a mock salute, he turns and, with long strides, eats up the distance between the Impala and the school Office, stealing inside.

Dean shivers once he's gone. "That didn't sound good," he says, reaching out to grab Castiel's arm and tugging him around to face him. "Michael thinks you're a demon," he adds, taking a deep breath, eyes flashing down for a moment before coming back up to search Castiel's face. "I kept trying to convince him but -."

"Dean." Castiel just huffs a breath, shaking his head with a bitter, sarcastic smile. "Nothing you could have done would have changed his hate for me. And he should hate me." He turns back around, looking towards where Michael disappeared. "He sees me as a threat."

"To what?" Dean asks, eyes wide and concerned. His hand is still lingering on Castiel's arm.

Castiel just blinks at him. "You can't be that naïve," he says, almost wonderingly, and pulls his arm away, leaving Dean to frown at his retreating back as he turns and heads for chemistry. He's sure he will have to answer Dean's questions later in drama, but for now he has an hour to think and plan his responses as best he can without getting himself into more trouble.

So much for staying unattached.

* * *

><p>It is in Chemistry that he notices.<p>

Lucifer always rights with his left hand, his right is always resting in his lap because he bends so far forward over his notes, practically writing sideways in his messy, leaning scrawl. Today, he has his hand resting in plain sight on the top of the work benches. Castiel doesn't notice at first, but invariably his eyes are drawn to the split knuckles and bruised skin on Lucifer's hand. He cocks his head, frowning for a moment, before ripping out a page of his notebook and writing a quick message, passing it over to the other teen when Doctor Singer's watchful eye is averted;

_What happened?_

It's all he's written and Lucifer takes the paper, brows furrowed for a moment before his expression clears. He looks towards Castiel for a moment, their eyes meeting, before he sighs and takes the paper, scribbling his answer;

_He's my big brother._

It shouldn't be enough of an answer, but strangely, Castiel thinks he might understand. A little.

_What is he planning?_

_Lunchtime. The Principal's Office._

Castiel shoots Lucifer a look, but the other teen refuses to meet his eyes, his entire focus now centered on copying the notes from the white board and book and answering the assigned questions.

"Thank you," he murmurs, quietly enough that it does not draw too much attention, and Lucifer's eyes flash his way. He smiles a little, shrugging one shoulder like Dean and Sam and Ruby and Gabriel do, and Castiel feels a little bit more at ease about the whole situation. He still wonders what Michael is planning, knows it can't possibly be good, but he trusts that Lucifer would not lie to him in the time and place. So all he can do is wait.

* * *

><p>"You think that song was about me and Michael."<p>

"Hello, yourself," Castiel mutters, stalking down and plopping himself next to Dean in the second row of the auditorium seats. He used to disapprove of Dean putting his feet up on the seats in front, but now he finds himself slouching in a similar way, bracing the balls of his feet in front of him because it doesn't strain his ribs as much and this way he can hide his belly. "How was your first period? Oh, good, thank you Dean, how was -?"

"Shut up," Dean snaps. He's angry. His eyes flash with frustration and his fingers curl into the backs of the seats just a little too tightly, white-knuckling the rim. "Stop…stop being _Castiel_."

Castiel raises an eyebrow at that, but averts his eyes to stare at the stage. "I wasn't aware that my nature was so repulsive to you, Dean," he says stiffly, shoulders tensing up a little. "My apologies. I'll go through life now grinning like an idiot."

"Stop it." Then, Dean has a hand on his shoulder, he's turning Castiel to look at him – they are the only students in the auditorium so far aside from Anna – the redhead who had landed the part of Elfabio's mother, much to her annoyance – and a few other students that Castiel had never bothered to learn the names of. They are all sitting far away, cannot possibly hear what's being said. Dean's sitting so close – Castiel can count the different shades of green in his iris. "I didn't mean it like…" The younger teen cuts himself off, making a frustrated sound and an aborted movement with his hand. "I've known Castiel for a while, alright? He's an ass. He hides and speaks in riddles and…I don't like him, not really." Castiel blinks and Dean's eyes flash back to his face. "But I knew Jimmy, and I know this Cas, the guy you _actually_ kind of are, and I like him but he's acting like a complete tool right now and I wanna know why."

"You don't know me," Castiel mutters in reply with a roll of his bright eyes. "I lie like people talk, Dean. Who's to say I am who I say I am?"

"Well you're not who everyone else says you are, so that narrows it down," Dean snaps back with a low growl. Castiel goes tense for a moment and refuses to meet Dean's eyes. "Look…" The hand is back, on his shoulder, soothing now, the thumb brushing along the end of his collarbone in a motion that's so foreign in how comforting and tender it is. "I don't…I know losing your father was hard, and me finding out and everything…but please, Cas, don't push me away."

"Don't you understand, Dean?" Castiel whispers, harsh and mean when his eyes flash and he bares his teeth in a snarl. "I'm not going to get attached to this place. When I graduate I'm going to _leave_. I can't…have anything holding me back."

Dean doesn't reply, and after a moment Castiel shrugs off his hand. Other students have entered the auditorium now and Zen and Pamela are there also. Pamela struts her way on stage with the nervous little man following close behind, pushing his glasses up his nose with yet more stacks of paper clutched in his hands.

"Guys, I found the stapler!" he announces, as though that news were better than Christmas coming early, and Castiel chuckles despite himself. Dean just smirks and shakes his head, slouching back in his seat. His arm, however, doesn't go around the back of Castiel's shoulders like he has in the past – Castiel never realized how much he would miss the weight of the warm muscle until now. He presses his lips together and forces himself to focus. "Congrats on each and every one of you who got parts and backstage assignments…"

"I still don't understand why he's called 'Zen'," Castiel leans over to whisper, both as an ice breaker and a change of subject.

Dean smirks again. "Wait until rehearsals start."

"Alright, new meat!" Pamela interrupts Zen, holding up her hands for attention. "As you've probably already seen, there have been a few changes made to the script and the play itself. However most of you will have noticed that most of the songs remain the same. Those people who have singing parts are kindly asked to stay after school for the first few rehearsals we can sneak in before school break."

"This isn't an option, is it?" Castiel asks blandly, and Dean just laughs like it's the funniest thing in the world.

"For now, however, we're gonna go through some of the scenes and try and figure out if any of this will actually work. Lighting, sound, you're up with me. Actors and chorus stay where you are and look pretty."

Over half of the assembled students rise to their feet and follow Pamela as she strides up to the top of the auditorium. The entrance to the tech booth is external and they have to exit the auditorium to be able to enter it.

"Alright, guys, if you'll just -." Zen starts, but then there is a very loud, very annoyed shout from Pamela upstairs, and he is interrupted. Without thinking Castiel jumps to his feet and runs upstairs, to see what is going on. The rest of the students are only seconds behind.

"Michael Santos, just what _are_ you doing?" Pamela demands in a hard voice, hands on her hips and weight resting on one leg. Castiel peers through the heads of the other students to find the older teen just coming out of the – darkened – Principal's office, two files clutched in his hand. After a moment she walks forward again and yanks the files from his hand. She reads the names and her eyes flash, briefly, to Michael, and then Castiel. "I think we should call the Principal in, don't you?"

Michael presses his lips together, anger burning in his eyes when he looks over towards Castiel. His lips curl up in an almost imperceptible sneer. "Go ahead," he says, holding up his hands and backing away. "I got nothin' to hide." Then he turns and walks away, quickly disappearing around the corner of the school.

Pamela tucks the folders in tight under her arm after a moment. "Zen," she calls, summoning the nervous little man, "take care of the class. I'm going to get Mister Santos. Jimmy Novak, you come with me."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Please note that this is as far as I've gotten in the story so far, both on Livejournal and here. As new installments are made I will update them, so this is the last over 20,000 word entry. The next will probably average about 5,000 each. Hope you're enjoying it so far! (:<strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

It seems like such an obvious connection that the Principal of Lawrence High would be Michael's father – Castiel knows he's pretty much screwed from the very beginning, as he trudges into the Office with Pamela from theatre class.

The office is warm, almost stifling in how hot it is, decorated in a minimalistic way with a sleek desk and high bookshelves that contain more diplomas and school awards than anything else. Flanking the desk on either side are large filing cabinets that Castiel guesses contains every student file that the school currently has. He swallows, slouching down a little more in his chair.

He knows he hasn't done anything wrong, but this is Michael's _father_. It seems just a little bit like an unfair trial.

The Principal shows up soon after Castiel and Pamela enter the office. He…does not look like Castiel had imagined him. He isn't a fat, balding man with sweat stains and a haggard or bitter look about his face. He's actually surprisingly young – no older than John Winchester or Mister Harvelle. His hair is the same honey-yellow as his sons', his eyes a warm, dark brown. Castiel swallows again, pressing his lips together and sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

Mister Santos pauses behind his desk, raising a brow at Castiel's appearance. "That's quite set you've got there, son," he says, gesturing towards his own face, and Castiel nods, flashing his eyes up at the man.

"They're old," is what he says in reply.

The man chuckles, holding his hands up in defense. "Yes," he says. "I imagine that is why you have been 'sick' the past few days…"

"Mister Santos," Pamela interrupts, her voice hard and annoyed. She leans forward and slides the files onto the Principal's desk. "Michael was caught trying to sneak out of your office with these."

The man sits with a heavy sigh, taking out a pair of thin-rimmed wire glasses and placing them delicately on his nose. "Jimmy and…" He flips the files. "Castiel Novak." He looks up towards the teenager. "Forgive me, but I don't think you have a twin, Mister Novak."

Castiel presses his lips together, looking down. "They're both me. I didn't want to be known by my birth name here."

"Castiel…this is an old file, young man. Your transcripts, if I'm correct," the Principal says, as though he doesn't have each and every detail of his students' files memorized down to the last detail. He seems like that kind of person. "You have quite the reputation back in Boston."

"My friend did," Castiel argues without much heat. "I just preferred his company than that at home. Detention would never…" He stops, swallows, and looks away for a moment.

"Ah, yes. Your father. Such a tragedy, that – though I hope you have found a good home with the Winchesters until you turn eighteen. It seems to me," Mister Santos says, changing the subject without giving Castiel time to speak up, and sitting back in his chair, "that my son may have wanted some information privy only to those in authority about your past." His eyes, though he is thumbing at the files, remain fixed on Castiel's face. "Michael is a good kid, but sometimes his sense of reality is a little…skewed."

There is a long silence for a moment, the two men staring each other down. Castiel frowns after a moment – this is his chance. This is his chance to tell Mister Santos everything; about Michael and Dean, Dean and his own relationship – whatever relationship there may be – and Michael's threatening behavior and his own father and everything…

"Don't try and bait me, Mister Santos. I'm not here to make accusations," he says, his voice just on the verge of snappy. He will not fall into anyone's traps – will not be invested. He's already fallen a little too far because of Dean.

The Principal smiles, his eyes proud as though Castiel has just proven something to him, and he raises his hands again in surrender, setting the files down. "Of course Michael will be talked to," he says, standing, and Castiel and Pamela take that as their cue also. "So sorry to interrupt your class, Miss Barnes, and waste your time, Mister Novak."

They shake hands and depart. Castiel feels shaky, walking with Pamela back to the auditorium, as they still have half an hour left in class. He reaches forward before they enter, hooking his fingers into her wrist and turns her around.

"Mister Santos…how on my side is he?" he asks, just a little edge of nervousness creeping into his voice.

Pamela just smiles. "Don't you worry about that," he says, squeezing Castiel's arm. "He knows when Michael's pulling some bullshit. You got nothin' to be afraid of."

And somehow the assumption that he thinks he does just makes Castiel more nervous than ever. His face is impassive by the time he reaches and rejoins Dean and the rest of the actors in front of the stage with Zen.

He is very good at looking impassive.

* * *

><p>It appears that, out of the Santos sons, only Michael is against him. The first thing Gabriel does when he greets Dean and Castiel in the cafeteria is clap Castiel on the shoulder and wrap him up in a hug. It hurts, his bruised ribs twinging at the treatment, but mostly it is Castiel's surprise that prevents him hugging back – and the fact that Gabriel apparently hugs<em>around<em> people, not the actual person, and his arms are trapped to his sides.

"Um…thank you?" he hazards when the youngest brother pulls away.

Gabriel just grins at him and makes his way back over to whatever corner of the cafeteria he came from. Castiel and Dean are left to mull over the gesture before joining Sam and Ruby at the lunch table.

"That's how Gabriel accepts people into the group," Sam explains with a shrug of his shoulders and an indulgent smile, shoving another mouthful of salad in, his cheeks bulging with the lettuce and tomato. Castiel barely resists the urge to smirk at Dean's disgusted face. "Or he might be extending a peace offering. I mean, I'm sorry, but I think something happened with Michael or whatever that didn't happen with the other two 'cause they're almost normal, you know?"

"Jeez, Sam, you can't wait to dirty his name, can you?" Dean mutters, rolling his eyes, but there's a little smile on his face when he bites into his burger.

Castiel hesitates, fingers idly playing with the bottle cap of his water – he had splurged today and gotten a piece of pizza and an orange, figuring he hadn't actually eaten all that much in the past few days aside from dinner at the Winchesters'. He wants to tell Dean about the files – tell him that he really thinks Michael is up to something bad, wants to tell him about Lucifer's bruised knuckles and how he had felt he _needed_ to beat Michael up on his request. But he doesn't.

He's trying not to be that kind of guy again.

"Zen wants you guys to stay behind for rehearsals, just so you know," Dean says after another moment, pulling Castiel out of his thoughts. "I called Dad so you guys can get picked up after your turn but I was under the impression he wanted Cas and I to stay later."

"Well, you _are_ the leads," Ruby says with a large grin and Dean smirks at her, rolling his eyes. "I never got to congratulate you for that," she adds, looking to Castiel with her earnest brown eyes.

He smiles at her. "Thank you. I was very surprised," he says, shrugging. "Technically I didn't even do a line-run. They chose me on the song alone. I could be a horrible actor."

"They can't really be picky in a school this size," Dean replies with a grin, but there's this look in his eyes when he fixes his gaze on Castiel, a look that says; _We both know you're an excellent actor. An excellent liar. Don't pretend._

Sam nods. "Yeah, otherwise they wouldn't have picked my sorry ass."

"Sam, language," Dean warns half-heartedly, taking another bite of his burger and Sam rolls his eyes again, continuing to eat his salad. Greasy though the pizza looks and way too bad for him to be normal, Castiel finds that it's gone too soon – he really hasn't been eating well and he feels it in the way his stomach lurches a little on the tail-end of the pizza. He finishes his water and orange and goes to the bathroom quickly before his Literature class.

He's finished his business and washing up when Michael comes into the bathroom. The older teen doesn't go into a stall or stand in front of one of the urinals. No, instead he quickly shoves open all the doors, making sure he and Castiel are alone while the younger teen watches on in the mirrors, and ducks his head when Michael joins him at his left-hand side.

"You got lucky today," he says lightly, his hand coming to his own face and tracing down the side of his cheek, along the edge of the bruises. "But my father won't do anything about it. He knows enough to stay out of my business."

Castiel remains silent, lathering soap on his hands and rinsing them away.

"I don't know what you did to wrap Dean so easily around your finger. Should've figured, though, I guess – he always has been so innocent and impressionable."

The mention of Dean makes Castiel go tense, a retort just barely bitten back behind his teeth as he clenches his jaw, forcing his face to give nothing away as he reaches for the paper towel dispenser and pulls out two, wiping his hands. The anger he feels on hearing this _ass_ say Dean's name is irrational and dangerous, and he tamps it down and throws it away, deep in his box, his safe, his lake where he places everything he's not meant to feel.

He makes to leave the bathroom but Michael stops him, a hand on his shoulder spinning him around and shoving him up against a wall by the door. The force of the blow against the wall jars Castiel's body and makes him hiss but he remains tall, chin raised in defiance as he meets angry blue eyes.

"He will never be yours," Michael whispers, voice low and dark and just on _this_ side of too threatening and familiar, as the older teen takes a step closer. "He has been and always will be mine."

"I don't want him," Castiel snaps, tasting the lie on his tongue as he growls at Michael and pushes himself upright, away from the wall. "You can have him."

Michael smirks, eyes flashing. "You don't want him?" he asks, derision and disbelief in his voice. He rolls his eyes. "So you're just going to string him along like a little puppy and then dump him when you're bored, _Cas_?" He growls, taking another step forward. They're almost toe-to-toe now. "At least I gave him what he needed."

"You can have him," Castiel repeats, voice low. He's shaking with anger and he can't quite understand why. "But you'll never be what he wants or needs. Hopefully one day he'll realize it too and be able to move out from under your Godforsaken shadow."

"Don't talk to me about God, _boy_," Michael snaps, his normally handsome face twisted into a snarl. "A demon like you has no place mentioning his name."

Castiel makes a low sound – frustrated or angry, he can't quite tell – and pushes himself away from the wall again. The action forces Michael to take a step back so Castiel's shoulder doesn't brush him. The younger teen moves to the door.

"I'll run you out eventually," Michael promises, voice low and certain.

Castiel turns around, one hand on the door, and shakes his head, almost unable to believe how ridiculous all of this is – who knew jealousy could make a man so insane? "Don't you worry about me," he says, turning back around, "I have no intention of sticking around. I just hope he sees you for what you are and dumps your sorry ass for good."

And then he leaves. He's almost five minutes late for Lit class but luckily Mister McCloud seems to be too.

His mind is racing. Michael has already proven that he has the means to get into Castiel's files – for some reason, though he's not quite sure why, the older teenager thinks that having his little brother bust his face open will get Castiel in trouble. He's more than a little crazy and more than a lot determined and, though perhaps Castiel doesn't fear him, he is intimidated by him.

He shouldn't have spoken so out of turn like that. Usually he has better control. He cannot concentrate on the book – poem? – they're analyzing and when Mister McCloud asks him questions, he has no idea what the hell the man is talking about. He seems to notice, in that way he does, and asks more and more, keeping Castiel's mind focused on the task. It helps for a little while, but the last two classes of the day do not pass by quickly and they cannot keep his attention no matter how hard he tries.

He hates Dean Winchester, for a brief moment, for making his thoughts so muddled. He used to be logical – prided himself on that, in fact. Now not even a day living with the man and he can't seem to think about anything but Dean and his safety. Michael's presence and threats makes Castiel worry and he knows it's none of his Goddamned business what those two get up to, but he can't help but feel angry in a _personal_ way when Michael talks about Dean – talks about him like he owns him, like Dean is his to do whatever the hell he pleases with.

It reminds Castiel a lot of his father and in the end he thinks that that is why he's getting so upset. Clearly there is no other logical reason.

* * *

><p>Castiel comes to realize something vital by the time school finishes and he worms his way through the bustle to get back to the auditorium for rehearsals.<p>

His script is still in his father's house.

The thought of going back into that place is unsettling, though Castiel knows that that is ridiculous – the house was not evil, the residents were. Are. Whatever. He sighs, running a hand through his hair when he sits down next to Dean in the second row.

"What is it?" Dean asks.

"Left my script at the house," Castiel replies, and they both know he isn't talking about Dean's.

"Damn." There is a pause while Dean tries to think of a solution. "They don't usually print spares – 'Save the Trees' and all that. I can go ask Zen though, if you'd like." Without waiting for a response, Dean gets up and climbs over Castiel to get out of the row, and Castiel watches him go – Dean is so damn nice. Like, not only is he a good friend and a great brother but he's a _nice guy_, and Castiel wonders, not for the first time, how in the hell Michael managed to catch and keep him for so long. Someone that genuinely _good_ doesn't do things like date a guy like Michael.

Or Castiel.

Not that he cares.

That's beside the point.

"Zen doesn't have another copy," Dean's voice suddenly says, coming closer than Castiel had expected, and he jumps a little when the teen rejoins him. "But he says we're doing songs today anyway and he has separate music for that so." He shrugs.

Castiel nods, pressing his lips together. "I can't read music," he says.

"Do you know the songs?"

Castiel nods again.

"Well, then that should be fine."

A pause. "Will you come with me to my father's house tonight, after practice? Pack some things up?"

Even though Castiel isn't looking at him, he can hear Dean's faint smile in his voice; "Sure thing, Cas."

It is that moment that Zen chooses to appear, scurrying onto the stage. His hair is in even further disarray than usual and his glasses hang off his nose. "Alright, alright, no need to panic everyone, sorry I'm late – it's cool, it's all zen, everything is zen…" He pauses, coughing slightly, and looks out over the half-dozen students gathered. "Is this all Pamela asked for?" he asks, brow furrowing.

"She asked for the main singing parts. People with solos," Dean says, and Zen pauses for another moment.

"Is, ah, is our Elfabio here?" he says, flicking absently through some papers, and Castiel nods once, raising his hand. Zen smiles. "Good. You, Fiyero, come up here. We're gonna start with your song."

Dean is up and out of the seat before Castiel can fully comprehend what that means, and he blinks when Dean holds out his hand. It seems like such a silly thing to do, but Castiel takes it and lets Dean pull him to his feet, lets the younger teen lead him up onto the stage.

The curtains are drawn apart when they approach, revealing some trees wrought from iron and a makeshift slope leading off into the stage right wing. There are crosses and lines taped to the floor, presumably for other pieces of scenery. Castiel is amazed at how fast the school must be working to create the scenery so soon.

"Oh, good! We're starting off with our stars." Castiel and Dean turn to look up at the top of the auditorium. Pamela is walking down the middle aisle, before she turns around and cups a hand to her mouth. "Andy! I want mood lighting!" Immediately the scene is enveloped in a dark blue glow, and Pamela nods, satisfied. "Good, good."

She claps her hands together and jogs to join Zen up on the stage, fixing Castiel and Dean with a smile that Castiel can only really call predatory.

"Alright, guys, let me set the scene for you." She sweeps past Zen, leaving the small man to choke on whatever he might have said and look after her with a confused, slightly affronted expression on his face. "The character of Elfabio is pretty much like Elfaba from the original – we've just made him a barbarian from one of the enemies of Oz instead of, you know, a green witch. Think voodoo kind of thing.

'As Long As You're Mine' is an iconic song, when Fiyero and Elfabio will share one magnificent night together before they are torn apart by the guards who are hunting Elfabio down. In the original play, the scene is very…" She waves her hand vaguely, searching for the right term. "Wholesome. Too wholesome. It's a sexual song – we want to see that on stage."

Castiel blinks at her, unable to hear her over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. She wants Dean and him to…wants it to be _sexual_. To be honest, Castiel had had doubts that they would even keep the kiss in the play at all – apparently not only that, but they're wanting to go a whole lot further with it.

Dean's looking at him – he can feel those jade eyes burning into the side of his face and he's not sure if he's blushing or not but he hopes to God that he is not. His fingers clench nervously in the sleeves of his hoodie and he resists the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

"…Just go with what feels natural," Pamela finishes with a smile.

Dean swallows audibly and Castiel feels a small amount of relief, knowing that he isn't the only one that is uncomfortable here. He dares to glance at Dean, finds the younger teen blushing, a light red stain high on his cheeks, biting into his lower lip as Castiel knows he tends to do when embarrassed or thinking. The slow drag of his flesh between his teeth is distracting, though.

"We're…" He coughs. "You want us to do that tonight?"

Pamela's smile widens. There is murmuring coming from the seats. "Yeah, Jimmy. Just go for it."

"Pamela -."

A look from the woman cuts Zen off, and Castiel just barely thinks that she really is quite a pushy woman, before her eyes turn back to them. "Alright Dean, Jimmy, let's see what you've given me to work with." Then they leave the stage and Dean and Castiel are left alone.

It feels strange, but hearing himself be called 'Jimmy' is…strangely soothing. He isn't Castiel, here, on this stage, even though Pamela knows his real name now – he is an actor. An actor told to play a role. Jimmy is a good actor – Jimmy doesn't have daddy issues and an inappropriate fondness for the man who has taken him in, and his family. Jimmy does not have all that emotional and confusing crap hanging over his head.

And Jimmy is being told to play a role.

He can do that.

He looks over to Dean and flashes a smile – there is an emotion on Dean's face and in his eyes that he cannot identify and doesn't waste time on it. "We should run on," he says, forcing his tone to be light. "Heat of the moment thing and all that."

Dean nods, swallows, and reaches forward. Two of his fingers hook into Castiel's – _Jimmy's_ – sleeve and he tugs, leading the other teen off-stage. Lucifer is there, manning the curtains and flies, and he gives them a nod with a small half-smile. Castiel nods back at him.

For a moment there is silence, and then Dean takes a breath. He still hasn't let go of Jimmy's arm. "If I…do anything," he says, voice low and tense, heavy with hidden meaning, "that…I mean, I don't want to freak you out or anything. I don't want to…"

Suddenly, it makes sense. "Dean," Castiel whispers, stepping forward, his eyes earnest, voice stern. "You are not my father. I would never…you would never do that to me. I can't even equate those kinds of things with you on any level."

Dean looks relieved, but there is a hesitance in his smile that pulls at Castiel's heart, and he bites his lower lip. "Just…if I do something and it's too much just shove me away. I won't get mad or anything. I don't want this to be any more awkward than it's gonna."

Castiel smirks a little at that, before he takes a deep breath, and falls back into the role of Jimmy. Jimmy is calm, ready to perform – he's 'Zen'. Totally Zen.

"You boys ready?" Zen calls, and Jimmy nods, pressing his lips together. Dean gives a small 'yeah' back and then the opening chords of the song are playing. It's on an audio track so they can't stall while the two run onto the stage.

Suddenly, anticipation fills Castiel – not Jimmy, not this time. He is going to hear Dean sing. Dean is going to be singing_to_ him, _with_ him, with all the raw emotion that he somehow can't capture in a recording. He is not naïve and vain enough to think that it is his presence itself that changes Dean's voice and makes it so much _more_.

He feels a tug on his arm and runs onto the stage after Dean. There are two of the iron trees, one on each side half-way back from the proscenium arch, and they run to the furthest one. The time comes for Castiel's first note and he stops, digs in his heels, pulls Dean towards him. Dean doesn't anticipate it, stumbles, sends them spinning until Castiel's back collides with the hard iron tree. It hurts – stings his injured back and ribs like a bitch – but it just incenses Castiel more.

Dean steps close, one of his hands on the side of Castiel's face, fingertips tracing him like he's precious, fragile – almost enough to make Castiel believe it himself.

"_Kiss me too fiercely,"_ he whispers, fingers coming up to curl over Dean's wrist, his other hand coming to rest on Dean's waist, pulling him close, fractured knuckles stinging when he digs in and hangs on. _"Hold me too tight."_He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to look up into Dean's eyes – _Fiyero's_eyes. _"I need help believing you're with me tonight."_

Dean smiles a little – Fiyero smiles – affection and desire flashing in his eyes and Castiel cannot tell whether that is acting or real and he doesn't want to find out in case he gets an answer he doesn't like. He tugs closer, the hand on Dean's wrist moving to his hair, pulling him in. They're so close now, their chests are touching, and he can smell Dean's soda and some gum on his breath, the minty warmth washing across his face.

His hands are shaking again. _"My wildest dreamings could not foresee…"_ He looks down, biting his lip, closing his eyes when Dean worms a thigh between his legs, pressing so close that Castiel feels he's going to meld with the tree behind him. _"Lying beside you…with you wanting me…."_

The chorus rises – makes emotion clog his throat just for a moment and Dean rides it with him, hands moving to Castiel's hips, rocking, just a little – just enough for him to feel the hard strength of Dean's body contrasting with the cold, unwelcoming feeling of the tree at his back.

_"Just for this moment,"_ he sings, his voice cracking just a little and he can't figure out why, _"as long as you're mine…I've lost all resistance…"_ His hands move to Dean's hair, his eyes close and he tilts his head when Dean leans down, open mouth dragging spit-slick lips across his neck, down his jaw. It feels good. It feels really good – God, how can he have never felt like this before? _"And crossed some borderline…And if it turns out…"_

Dean's suddenly not by his face anymore – Castiel's fingers clench in his soft, thick hair when he feels Dean's thigh move from between his, warm, large hands flattened oh-so-gently across his flanks, moving down in a caress so gentle and soft that Castiel trembles from just how loving and affectionate it feels. He looks down, eyes flying open, sees Dean staring back up at him from where he's kneeling -.

_He's kneeling_.

_"It's over too fast…"_ There is such emotion and love in those dark green eyes. Castiel pets a hand through Dean's hair, sucking in a breath at the puff of warm air that escapes from Dean's bitten-red lips against his stomach. His gut clenches at the feeling, an undeniable heat pooling low in his belly from having Dean on his knees_. "I'll make every last moment last. As long as you're mine."_

He is a little ashamed to admit he growls out the last line – he doesn't understand why…with the music, what's going on. Dean, kneeling, _on his knees for Castiel –_it seems so absurd that Dean should be able to affect him as much as he is right now. His hands tighten in Dean's hair, one hand comes down to trace the curve of the younger teen's strong jaw.

Castiel wants. He wants Dean. He wants Dean right now.

Dean smiles – is he still in character? Is all of this just an act? God, please, no, yes… _"Maybe I'm brainless, maybe I'm wise…but you've got me seeing through different eyes."_ His voice is huskier than Castiel's, less pure, more 'manly' as it is, marred with gravel and emotion. Castiel tugs on his hair and his eyelids flutter. He leans forward to mouth at Castiel's stomach and even through his hoodie and shirt Castiel can feel his warm breath.

Then his hands start skating up Castiel's thighs, large and warm and steadying. _"Somehow I've fallen under your spell…"_There's a laugh in his voice – a happy, glorious revelation. Suddenly, he rises to his feet, those hands still on Castiel's thighs and hauling him close and it seems like the only natural reaction is to cling to Dean's shoulders, wrap an arm around his waist, hold himself close to keep from falling_. "And somehow I'm feeling it's up that I fell."_

They sing the chorus together, harmony colliding together as easily as though they had rehearsed it a thousand times. Dean is leaning close, they're sharing air – God, he's so close, so warm…he feels like a steady hand, a warm blanket on a cold night, reassurance, safety. He smells like leather and oil and a warm, welcoming home full of food and spices and something that homes always have but Castiel has never been able to identify.

Castiel gasps, then, suddenly – Dean is…Dean is…There is an undeniable press against Castiel, something he knows and recognizes, and he looks up with wide eyes into Dean's face. Dean's leaning close, his mouth resting just barely against Castiel's temple so the older teen could turn his face and would be able to feel Dean's stubble-rough jaw.

That's insane.

Castiel tenses up, pushes Dean away and he stumbles back, just two steps.

He doesn't break the song, though.

_"…Say there's no future for us as a pair…"_

He sinks to his knees again, one hand reaching out to Castiel. He's clinging to the tree for strength, breathing hard, flushed – the room feels like it's a thousand degrees and for a moment he forgets that they are on a stage, that there are people watching. He runs forward and falls into Dean's lap, thighs straddling and bracketing Dean's hips and Dean wraps his arms around Castiel's waist, holding him close.

"_And though I may know…I don't care."_

Dean's hands are on his back, sitting low, just short of being uncomfortable and intrusive. But it doesn't feel awkward. It feels…dare he say it, natural. Like they should just be sitting here for the rest of their lives, singing, emotion flying high. Dean's cheeks are flushed, his eyes bright, Castiel imagine that he can't be looking much better.

God, it feels _right._

And then, it's over.

_"…know I'll be here, holding you, as long as you're mine…"_

The note dies out, and Castiel almost expects Dean to deflate, to slip out of character like he so desperately wants to himself, but it feels like the character has a hold on him now, talons dug in, and refusing to let go and it's as terrifying as it is exhilarating.

Dean's hand comes up, tracing the side of his face, his eyes dark and full of concern when Castiel turns his eyes away.

"What is it?" he whispers, just loud enough to be heard. Castiel vaguely remembers the line, and it's so damn easy to smile wide, to cling with excited fingers to Dean's hair and arms and neck, his thighs clenching tight with his excitement.

"Nothing," he replies, feeling giddy. "It's just for the first time…I feel..._wicked_."

Castiel is a little pleased to note Dean's small shiver at that, his fingers curling into Castiel's flesh, pulling him close. They're leaning in, and that is when Castiel feels the sudden, icy clench low in his stomach. He gasps, turning his face away so Dean's soft, warm lips land on his jaw, Castiel shuddering and clenching his eyes tightly shut, going tense.

He knows that it is irrational – the fear. This is Dean; Dean is pretty much the antithesis of Castiel's father…but that doesn't make it easier to forget. To feel Dean's fingers clinging to him so desperately as those of his father – hurting, bruising. He shudders, fingers curling in the material of Dean's shirt, breathing in deep to try and steady himself. Dean's pulled away from him now and he can feel those concerned green eyes on his face.

"Cas?" he whispers, almost too softly to hear. One hand starts stroking up and down Castiel's flank and he bites his lip. "You okay?"

"I…"

It is then that Castiel hears Pamela clearing her throat, and he lifts his gaze to the woman because looking at her is easier than looking at Dean. Carefully, he shifts off of Dean's lap, wincing when it feels too cold, sitting on the stage floor. He looks up at her again.

"How was that?" he asks, voice carefully neutral, still trying to shake off the feeling of being hunted, caught, _too close._

She raises a brow at the two of them – Dean, flushed, breathing hard, rubbing his palms flat on his thighs – Castiel, too quiet, too still, a prey animal waiting for the hunter to move on. "A good first attempt," she finally says, tossing some of her hair back over her shoulder. "But you do realize the scene requires a kiss, Jimmy. A _real_one."

He flushes slightly, biting his lip and looking down. "I understand."

"Good. Work on it. Now, you two take a break. We'll get…where is our Nessa and Bog?"

The rest of her words are drowned out in the rush of blood in his ears, as Castiel shoves himself clumsily to his feet and practically flees down back to the seats. Only in the darkness of the auditorium, away from the bright stage lights, does he feel a little safer, and allows himself to release the breath he'd been holding.

Until Dean sits next to him. He is tense but the teen doesn't touch him – just fixes him with this look. Like he's trying to figure out what he needs to say in a way that is the best way to say it.

"I'm sorry," he finally settles on, leaning back in his chair, non-threatening. "Got a little carried away there, I think."

Castiel flushes, biting his lip, and looks away. He can still feel the heat of Dean underneath him, feels the warm tingle where his lips had landed. "Not your fault," he says, absently wiping at his jaw. "Says so in the script. I just…had a moment, there. Won't happen again."

"Don't force this."

Castiel's instinct is to snap back at him, tell him to just back off and give him some space – but then he realizes that Dean _knows_. Of course Dean knows. So do Sam and Ruby, too – Sam, who is looking over his shoulder to watch the pair out of the corner of his eye, concerned and caring. Ruby is sparing them glances while Pamela goes over the scene with her and her costar – a sophomore named Garth.

They _care_ about him.

What in the hell?

"I just…" He clears his throat, staring straight ahead and folding his arms across his chest, fingernails digging into his hoodie sleeves. "I got carried away there, too. And bad timing. I'll get over it. With time and, you know, practice." He hesitates, just for a moment, then; "I trust you."

Dean's smile is blinding at that, and Castiel lets himself relax, just a little bit. "Good. I'm glad. Well, whenever you want to run through it again, just let me know."

He smiles. "I will, Dean, thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

The house is dead inside. Castiel knows this. It hasn't been lived in for a day and already it seems…grayer, around the edges. Strange, he thinks, as the Impala glides smoothly onto the curb and idles for a moment before Dean switches off her engine, that a house could look even more foreboding than when the man who made it a prison was alive.

He sighs, willing away his thoughts – they are irrational and more than a little silly – and pushes himself out of the car, closing the door softly behind him. Dean joins him at his side and for a moment they just stand, staring at it.

Dean clears his throat. "So, we going in or what?" he asks, sounding uncomfortable, and Castiel nods, pressing his lips together. The driveway is too short and the door opens too easily – unlocked.

Not much inside has been disturbed – whatever the investigators had looked for and at, it hadn't been in the downstairs, at least. He pauses briefly in the doorway – already a fine layer of dust has started to form on everything. Or maybe it's been there for a while and he has only just noticed it after not being in the house for what already seems like forever.

He doesn't want to stay here longer than necessary – he goes into the kitchen where he knows he left the script and grabs it, rejoining Dean in the front hall. Or at least, that's where Dean had been. He's now standing in the entrance to the dining room, his eyes dark and fixed on the many, many half-empty bottles of liquor sitting on the floor.

"He drank all of this?" he asks, almost incredulously, barely disguised anger clear on his face.

Castiel shrugs one shoulder. "He would go through all of that in about ten days," he replies, earning another shocked, horrified sound from Dean. "Let's go."

"What?" The younger teen turns around, his eyes drawn to the script Castiel's holding in front of his face; they have what they came for. "Oh." His brow furrows. "Don't you want to get any more of your stuff, while we're here?"

Castiel pauses, just looking at him for a moment. He doesn't want to go upstairs. He doesn't want to go back to 'his' room, the room where it will still smell of sex and still have his bloodstains on the wall, where that stupid _revealing_ window will just be sitting there, open, taunting him, sunlight shafting down onto his cot. If it remains just as he left it (which he doubts), then those boxes will still be in the corner, his room almost despicably clean because what did he have to make it dirty? Dean had gotten pretty much everything he owned.

There isn't anything up there _to _get.

He licks his lips, the fourth, unopened box flashing to the front of his thoughts. "Fine," he bites out, turning around and heading straight up the stairs, ignoring how his gut clenches at the thought of going back up there. _Get a grip_, he tells himself, angry for feeling so afraid and affected – like this is another of those 'bad nights'. And that's ridiculous because nothing has _happened_ to him. Nothing _will _happen to him.

He pauses, once again, at the threshold of his bedroom, his hand resting on the door handle, almost as though he is afraid to break it with his touch. Everything will just be as he left it – he wonders, briefly, if the memories will come crashing back when he opens the door. He has braced himself mentally for it, and he wishes, just for a moment, that he were doing this alone.

Then Dean is a comforting shadow behind him and he takes a deep breath, turning the handle and shoving it open gently.

It's just a room. Just a minimalistic, kind of barren room. Not really much to talk about with it, except for the smear of blood along the window frame. He has no doubt that it has been swabbed, and notices that the police must have taken his sheets from the bed, too, because it is bare. His mouth twists in a wry smile at the type of things they would have found on that. The blood would not have been his father's.

He walks into the room and heads towards the fourth box, tucked underneath the others in a corner. He doesn't really need the contents of any of them but if Dean wants him to get some sentimental crap then he will. Frankly he'd rather burn the whole lot to the ground. But that's not fair to her.

He picks the fourth box up and places it on his bed. Inside are three photographs and two birth certificates – that of him and his father's. He takes his out because he'd forgotten that was in there and that actually will be useful. And picks up the three other pictures.

Two of them are female – one a grown woman, the other a baby girl, and one is of a boy a few years older than him. He smiles a little, fingers tracing over their faces before he sighs and sets them down.

"I suppose I deserve a few clichés," he says wryly, looking over at Dean who is still stood just inside of the room, looking tense and uncomfortable. "My mother, my sister, and my best friend." He lists them off one by one, picking them up again and folding them, tucking them into his pocket along with his birth certificate. "That's all." He sighs, smirking bitterly. "I suppose I'll be able to look in a mirror in a couple years and see my dad."

"Cas…" Dean sighs, stepping forward, sitting himself on the end of the bed and Castiel hates the idea of Dean touching anything of his in here – Dean is too…_good_. Too pure and wholesome and everything Castiel is not and never will be. "You won't become him."

"Won't I?" Castiel replies, snorting bitterly. "What happened to him were very easy, conceivable things – bad marriages, lost loves, the whole shebang. I already…already have a bit of a drinking problem. What happens when I fall in love, huh? Find someone I want to spend the rest of my life with and it doesn't work out?" He raises his hand, makes it plummet and gives a low whistle. "Straight to the bottle."

"You won't," Dean argues, grabbing Castiel's wrist and taking hold, his fingers curling around tight enough that Castiel can feel the calluses left by his guitar. "I won't let you."

"You can't be with me forever, Dean." Castiel sighs, shaking his head, and chooses to ignore how much pain that thought causes him _– he_ _isn't going to get attached, damn it_. "I'm going to leave. At the end of the school year. As soon as I can I am flying out of here with your CD and I'm going to make it."

Dean blinks at him. "You still want to manage my music?" he asks, sounding unsure.

"If you'll still have me."

They stare at each other for the longest time, Dean looking over Castiel's face for any clue, anything to give him an idea of what Castiel is thinking. "Ruby, Sam and I want you to stay, you know," he says, dipping his head after a moment and letting Castiel's arm go. "Would that be so bad? Just…staying?"

"Don't be absurd." Castiel gets to his feet. This conversation is getting too intimate, too much like a future for him to want anything to do with it. He goes to the window, staring outside – the air is slightly warmer next to the glass, sunlight slanting down, too cheery and bright, and he sighs, turning back around. Dean hasn't moved. "What is there for me here?"

For another long moment they just stare at each other, before Dean sighs and gets to his feet, dusting himself off. "Is that all you wanted to get?" he asks, changing the subject very obviously, and Castiel swallows – something is happening. Something he can't control. He hates that. He hates not knowing what is going on.

"You're too good for me," he says.

Dean is just on the threshold of the room when he speaks, and the younger teenager halts, one hand still on the frame, and turns around. "Bull," he bites out, sounding angry, his eyes dark and lips turned down when Castiel looks at him. "You're just too scared."

Castiel snorts, shaking his head, and moves away from the window, brushing past Dean to leave the room. He's gotten what he came for and now he just wants to leave. After a moment he can hear Dean's footsteps following him.

"Nothing else?" the younger teen asks, sounding gruff and guarded.

"What do you think is going to happen?" Castiel suddenly snaps, turning around and looking at Dean, who freezes, fixing wide eyes on Castiel, caught off guard by his sudden vehemence. "You think that I'll just stay, take over as your _Angel_? Protect you from Michael and complete the little perfect family you've created for yourself?"

"What? No!" Dean replies defensively, taking a step back. "This has nothing to do with Michael!"

"Then what?" Castiel snaps, voice hard.

It looks like Dean deflates, then, fixing Castiel with a look that the older teen has trouble identifying. His eyes are bright and he looks like he _cares_. What the hell. "Why can't you just accept that there's something good about you? Something worth being around?"

"I've read this play, Dean," Castiel says, forcing derision into his voice when the look on Dean's face just makes him want to hug the boy, apologize, make him feel better. "It doesn't end well for anyone if this keeps going."

"If _what _keeps going?" Dean demands, anger flashing across his face as he takes a step forward. "What are you so afraid of?" Another step, then, half-way across the room, and Castiel takes a step back, looking down, shaking his head. "Cas, please." Suddenly Dean is there, right there, right in front of him, warm and he looks desperate when Castiel raises his head, his emotive green eyes expressing that emotion again that Castiel cannot identify. "Please. Stop talking like you're going to leave tomorrow. Stop…stop pushing me away."

Castiel swallows audibly. He feels restless, itching to do something though he's not sure what that something is. Dean's standing too close but Castiel can't find it in himself to back away and he can't understand why – why this teen is so magnetic, so alluring, and he knows he's been caught. Knows he was caught the second Dean first smiled at him.

He will have to hurt Dean. If he is to make it out of this alive – if they both are – he will have to irrevocably hurt Dean to get him to stay back. Dean doesn't deserve it.

He doesn't.

"Cas?" Dean's voice snaps him out of his thoughts and Castiel's eyes flash upwards, meeting emotive green.

"You called me your best friend," he says. The thought occurs to him and he just blurts it out before he can stop himself. Dean blinks at him, not understanding. "That night. You said I was your best friend. Not Michael. Or Sam or Ruby. Me. Why?"

"Because from the second I met you you've surprised me," Dean replies, open, honest. He reaches forward tentatively, his fingertips just brushing over Castiel's shirt where it rests over his heart. "Before I knew who you really were – that you were _Cas_ – you were just this…this presence. Like I've never felt before. Ruby liked you, Sam liked you…hell even Gabriel and he's the best judge of character I know." Dean shakes his head, eyes dropping from Castiel's gaze, his touch pressing just a little harder. "I don't know, man, it's just…I feel like you're capable of everything. Anything."

"That doesn't make me a good person, Dean," Castiel whispers, the fight draining out of him as he pushes Dean's hand away and takes a step back. "I'm going to graduate, and I'm going to take your music to L.A. or New York or something and I'm going to get you signed. That's all…that's all I can do."

"Graduation's months away, Cas," Dean says.

"Just a few more months." He nods, pressing his lips together as he repeats aloud the mantra that's been going through his head for the past year or so. Without another word he goes into the dining room, reaching down and grabbing for a bottle – Jameson again. Well, that'll do. It's about two thirds of the way full and that seems just about perfect. He gathers it close to his chest, pressing it against the pocket where the photographs are. "Let's go."

Dean's eyes are dark and he doesn't say another word as Castiel climbs into his car with the bottle between his knees. The older teen's fingers itch to open it and take a drink and his throat feels dry but he resists – Dean shouldn't have to watch him do it anyway, and he doesn't want to be judged. They are silent the entire short drive back to Dean's house and Castiel goes straight up to his room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He sets the bottle down on the nightstand and hangs his jacket up without taking out the pictures. They can stay there.

He needs help. Needs advice like he hasn't in a very long time. He remembers, back what seems like forever ago, deciding against calling Bal and weighing his friend down with his problems, but…well, Balthazar always has been his guiding light – the one he can always turn to no matter how bad things get. It had landed him in plenty of trouble back in Boston, but Castiel aches to hear his friend's voice, to imagine that Balthazar is here with him, to protect him from the danger of his own head.

His old cell phone sits, practically abandoned, in the bottom of his satchel because he hadn't had anyone he needed to call and all of his new friends had been a stone's throw away. Bonus of being in a smaller town, he guesses. The phone only has two numbers programmed in – Castiel's one for memorizing rather than putting it all into a machine that people can steal or hack or whatever else – and he deletes the first one. His father's cell phone is useless now, after all.

Balthazar picks up after an unbearably long time – almost nine full rings, and Castiel's glad his friend never invested in voicemail because that means the phone can ring for as long as it damn well pleases. "For a second there I thought I was imagining it," comes the greeting from the other end of the line, the smooth English accent flowing through and it does wonders for Castiel's frayed nerves already.

He sighs. "Hello, Balthazar."

"Cas – long time no talk," his friend replies, and Castiel can hear the scribbling of his pen – no doubt he's doing homework or discharge summaries or something. God knows how much work goes into getting a medical degree and Castiel can't remember just how far along Balthazar is supposed to be – if he's a resident by now or what. "How are you?"

"I'm…" Castiel swallows, sighing again. He reaches for the bottle of Jameson on his nightstand, undoing the cap with one hand and takes a swig of it. "I have a story for you, Bal."

The man laughs softly. "Alright, Bard, spin me a tale," he says, and Castiel can hear his pen stop writing, the creak of a chair being pushed back, settling down for whatever Castiel has to say, and not for the first time Castiel thanks whatever God might be in Heaven that he has always had Balthazar to run to.

Castiel smirks a little, bitterly, and takes another drink. "You won't even fucking believe it, man, but you know how I was talking about Dean – that kid whose music I was gonna go with…"

* * *

><p>"Is Jimmy going to be joining us for dinner?" John's voice snaps Dean out of his thoughts, and he looks up at his father, flushing a little despite himself. He'd been standing at the bottom of the stairwell, unconsciously waiting for Castiel to make a reappearance. He wants to make it better, whatever he'd done, said…the thought that Castiel is just slowly drinking himself into unconsciousness hurts him more than he would care to admit.<p>

"I…" Dean swallows, looking down, fingers fidgeting briefly in front of him. "I don't think so."

"Something wrong, son?" A warm, large hand settles on his shoulder and Dean sighs, stepping a little closer to his father and allowing John's presence and warmth to sink into him, make him stronger.

Where to start? Everything is going wrong. And Dean has no idea how to stop it. "I don't think Cas wants to stay here."

"Cas?"

Dean blinks. Right. "Castiel is his real name. He's been lying to…to everyone, I guess. But now that the truth's out I guess he doesn't have a reason to hide anymore."

"Isn't Castiel the name of that producer fella?" John asks, steering Dean with his hand towards the kitchen, which is currently empty. The room smells of pizza and Dean bends down quickly to check on the two large pies cooking in the oven. About ten more minutes. "Dean?"

"Uh. Yeah." Dean bites his lip, standing up again and looking his father reluctantly in the eye. "He is. Like Cas and everything…he's…he's _Castiel_, dad. And he's going to leave. And I can't -." He chokes, swallowing, and looks down at the floor again. "He's been through so much crap, dad, and I just want him to stay. I want to help him and it's driving me crazy 'cause I _can't_."

"Woah, woah, Dean, calm down." John smiles a little, holding his hands up in defense for a moment before he lowers them, taking a step back, and Dean sighs, bracing himself back against the countertop by the oven. "Now, sounds to me like you really like this kid."

Dean swallows, looking down, and nods. "I really do, dad. Like. I don't even know." He sighs. "But I don't know if he even…feels like that about me or anything. And I feel like…like I don't know. It just feels like everything at the wrong time right now, you know?"

John chuckles, folding his arms across his chest. "Son, you know what happened the day before I was gonna ask your momma's dad for permission to marry her?" Dean looks up, blinking, and shakes his head. "I hit him with my car." Dean gasps, eyes widening and John holds his hands up, shaking his head. "Totally by accident, of course, though damned if that didn't make him hate me even more. Point is, Dean, that circumstances are never gonna be perfect. And…Cas? Cas won't stick around forever, especially if you treat him like he's gonna break. He's a tough kid."

Dean sighs, closing his eyes for a moment and scrubbing a hand over his face. He's exhausted. Just then the oven timer dings and it jolts him enough out of his thoughts that he can help his father remove the pizzas from the oven and set them on large plates, and help him set the table as well. Mary, Sam and Ruby are all at the table within fifteen minutes and, though he had been hopeful, Dean can't say he's surprised when the place designated for Castiel remains very obviously empty.

* * *

><p>"So…that's it, in a nutshell," Castiel finishes. His words are slurring slightly and the bottle is almost empty. Goddamn. He'd really let himself get away with it. He picks up the Jameson one more time, emptying it, and then bends to let it roll under the bed before settling against the headboard with a heavy sigh.<p>

"Damn, Bard, that's quite a story," Balthazar replies, and Castiel chuckles – a harsh, bitter sound.

"Got any advice?"

"Well…" There's a pause, and Castiel waits, eyelids heavy and drooping as he listens to his friend move, no doubt resettling in that uncomfy-ass chair that he always insists on making Castiel sit on whenever he had come to visit. "Would you like to hear what you want to hear or what I want to say?"

Castiel hums, rolling his eyes, and wiggles his toes just to give his eyes something to focus on. Damn but he hasn't gotten this drunk in a while. "Surprise me," he mutters.

"Sounds like this Michael prick is too much trouble for the prize, considering you're going to be leaving come graduation. And yeah, the family's nice, but they're doing it because they want to. You won't owe them anything. And what will you get? Just heartbreak when you do have to leave. I mean, Dean can't come with you. The Winchesters won't just pick up stakes and fuck off West with you. You'll be even more alone than you were when you first moved to Lawrence."

Castiel blinks, swallowing, and rolls onto his stomach. "Now the other option," he says, voice low and raspy with emotion – because that…that sucks. What's worse is he can't tell if Balthazar's telling him what he really feels, or if that's what he thinks Castiel wants – _needs_ – to hear. He shouldn't have started drinking before having this conversation. All he wants to do is go to sleep. Sleep and have no dreams. No nightmares. No waking up at four in the morning because a floorboard creaked outside. Nothingness.

Balthazar's voice softens when he speaks again; Castiel can tell that he's smiling. "How did you feel when you heard him sing?" he asks, and Castiel sucks in a short breath.

"Like I was flying," he confesses, feeling himself blush at the admission, but if there's anyone he can call, drunk and pining, then it's Balthazar and he knows his friend won't judge him for it. "Like I had wings."

"Maybe you can reach that pedestal you've put him on, then," his friend replies, and Castiel has to snort at the cheeziness, rolling his eyes, and rests his forehead against his pillow. He sighs heavily, just breathing in the scent of fresh sheets and clean and _home_, before rolling onto his back again, eyes closed.

"Well that's all my shit outta the way," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face and sniffing. "How's medical school? You flame out yet?"

"You wish, brat," Balthazar replies, laughing a little, and Castiel smiles. Turns out Balthazar's going to be a resident in the coming year, provided he passes all of the practical exams which he had been studying for when Castiel called. Should be easy enough – Castiel remembers his friend having the brain of some kind of mutant cyborg because Balthazar remembers _everything_. Pretty much everything anyway. Eidetic memory or something. "Basically I'm set to be a resident next year. Pretty excited."

"I'm so fuckin' happy for you, man," Castiel replies sincerely, smiling wide – Balthazar deserves this, he knows. Worked himself to the bone for it. "Do I get free medical care then? Prescriptions and all that?"

Balthazar laughs. "Sure thing," he replies sarcastically and Castiel can _feel _him rolling his eyes. The chair shifts again and Castiel sighs, knowing he should leave Balthazar alone now, now that he's called like the drunken loser he is and blurted all of his shit to his friend. "Now stop stalling and decide what you're going to do about your situation."

Castiel snorts. "Am I that obvious?"

"No, actually, but I've known you a while." Castiel smiles softly, though Balthazar can't see him, and fidgets with the hem of his shirt idly, staring at the ceiling. The scent of pizza is wafting to him from downstairs and he doesn't know what time it is, but knows he's been missing dinner with the Winchesters. He's kind of guilty about that, but…well, it's not like he and his father were big on family dinners. It was more of a 'feed yourself whatever's there' kind of arrangement and it had worked out just fine.

"I need to…" He sighs, running a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands hard enough to sting, and hisses behind a clenched jaw. "Fuck, I don't even know anymore. I used to have, I don't know, like a goal, I guess. And now Dean and the Winchesters…I want to _save_ him. Is that ridiculous?"

"Look, Cas, if you care so much about this guy, then you need to _do _something about it. What are you saving him from?"

Castiel blinks, sighing softly. "I don't even know anymore. I mean…there's no danger, right? And you'd think I want to save myself more but…but I don't know. Everything seems so much less important than knowing that he's mad at me or I've upset him. When he smiles…Bal, when he smiles _I _smile. And his family is just so fucking amazing and _good_ – they're _good _people and…" He swallows – his tongue feels thick and his throat seems choked from emotion but he can't quite tell what emotion he's meant to be feeling. God, but this is so messed up. "I don't know what to do."

"You wanna know what I think?" Balthazar asks, snapping Castiel out of wherever his thoughts had drifted to, and Castiel presses his lips together, sighing heavily again.

"Yeah, pretty sure I do," he replies with a small laugh, gut clenching tight in nerves. "Tell me straight, Doc."

Balthazar sounds like he's smiling when he tuts softly, and says; "Sounds like you're falling in love with this kid."

The younger teen blinks at that news, and pauses while he takes a moment to think about that.

"Well," he says. "Fuck."


	5. Chapter 5

By the time dinner is finished and everything has been put away, it's nine at night and Dean decides to go check on Castiel, because he hasn't heard a thing from the other teenager's room and yeah, the walls are relatively thick but the house isn't that soundproof.

A knock gives him no answer and so he slowly pushes the door open, just a little, to peer inside, to find Castiel asleep, a closed cell phone clutched in his hand and Dean can just see the open end of the whiskey bottle peeking out from under the bed. His mouth twists and he closes the door gently again, going downstairs to get some painkillers, a slice of pizza and a large glass of water, which he brings back up to Castiel's room.

"Hey, Cas," he murmurs softly when the teen stirs, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows. He must not have been sleeping very heavily. The teen shifts, rolling back onto his back on the bed and blinking bleary, unfocused eyes up at Dean, who forces a smile. "Hey, man, you hungry? I brought some food and painkillers – you're gonna wanna take those before you wake up."

Castiel grunts, shoving himself to a sitting position and winces, feeling at his forehead. "Thanks," he mutters, his voice low and even that word is slurred so badly it sounds like just another grunt. Castiel rubs his eyes again, flinging his legs over the side of the bed, and blinks at the pizza and water, a small smile on his face when he reaches for it and starts to eat. It's still warm and feels good when it settles in his stomach and helps calm down the weird fluttery feeling that he blames on the alcohol. "How long was I out?"

Dean shrugs. "Dunno, but you've been up here for a few hours," he says. "It's about nine now."

The other teen blinks again, taking another bite of pizza. "Well, fuck me," he mutters, rolling his eyes, and then takes a long drink of water, swallowing the painkillers without complaint. "Did I miss anything important?"

Dean just shrugs.

They sit together in companionable silence for a while as Castiel eats and finishes off his water. When he is done Dean stands, taking the empty plate and glass. "You want more?" Tentatively, Castiel nods, as though he is unsure if he is allowed more and Dean quickly fetches some. "Who were you talking to? On your cell?" He nods towards the cell phone that sits on Castiel's bedside table now.

Castiel blinks at the phone again. "Balthazar," he says, and then rolls his eyes. "Damn it. If I fell asleep on him he'll never let me hear the end of it."

"And Balthazar is…?"

Castiel pauses, his alcohol-addled brain taking a moment to process Dean's tone. His eyes flash down to where Dean is sitting next to him, on the bed, his fingers curling in tightly to the duvet cover and quilt, knuckles turning white. His arms and shoulders are tense, brows pulled down, and he's frowning a little but trying to hide it.

The older teen blinks. "My best friend back in Boston," he replies honestly, tilting his head slightly when Dean seems to relax at that. "He, ah, was pretty much my only lifeline for a long time. Got me in a lot of trouble but saved me from a ton more." Castiel smiles a little, looking away from Dean and towards the wall of his bedroom. "He taught me how to lie."

"That's a good thing?" Dean asks, sounding angry.

"It is when you're me," Castiel replies, looking back at Dean with a flat look in his eyes. He is not ashamed of the life he had to lead back in Boston – true, most of it was just petty stuff, but he and Balthazar had gotten into enough shit that, had Balthazar taken the fall for any of it, he wouldn't have been allowed into any medical school at all. So Castiel had. After all, when you intend to be self-employed, it doesn't really matter what kind of crap you got up to in high school, does it? "That's probably what Michael was after with my files."

Dean sucks in a breath, his eyes widening. "He went after your files?" he asks, and it takes Castiel a moment to remember that Dean didn't actually know about that – he had just been there when Castiel got taken to the Principal's office but never actually saw what Michael had done.

The older teen shrugs, the alcohol loosening his tongue remarkably well as he talked between pizza bites. "Yeah. I think he's trying to get me into trouble by framing me for things. I mean, if you think about it, we both showed up with busted faces on the same day 'cause I hadn't shown up for school, and, I mean, no offense but no one here's gonna see that mine were significantly older than his…and if it gets out about all that stuff back in Boston it won't take long before people start running their mouths about other things, maybe even claiming I killed my dad, or they'll start blaming me for things that happened before I even moved here. You know how rumor-mongers are." He shrugs, not able to find it in himself to care as he takes another bite of pizza, washing it down with water – this shit tastes really good. Might just be that he's very hungry but there's no denying that the pizza is really hitting the spot. "No offense, Dean, but your boyfriend's kind of a psychopath."

"_Ex_-boyfriend," Dean corrects, feeling the need to emphasize it. He bites his lip, unable to believe what Castiel is saying – it sound ridiculous. Crazy. But, strangely, he can easily see Michael doing it, just because he could or can or 'has to'. Whatever 'calling' Michael has in his head right now, he hates Castiel and he will do pretty much anything to run him out of town.

He reaches forward, settling a hand on Castiel's arm where they rest on his thighs. "I won't let Michael run you out," he promises, and Castiel blinks, lifting his head and turning icy bright eyes on him.

Castiel snorts. "Ex-boyfriend," he repeats, pressing his lips together and looking away, sighing softly. They're sitting so close and the heat from Dean's hand feels like it's spreading throughout Castiel's entire body. His fingertips are shaking and he doesn't know why. "Balthazar seems to think I'm in love with you," he blurts, the thought just dropping into his mind and out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Dean goes tense by his side. "…Are you?" the younger teen asks, something akin to hope in his voice, and Castiel sighs, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes. He feels exhausted.

"I'm not _allowed_ to be," he growls, fighting the urge to get to his feet because the amount of alcohol he's had has probably severely messed up his equilibrium and he doesn't want to face-plant against the floor or the wall. He turns to look at Dean, hoping that the younger teen will be able to read what he's trying to say, understand that Castiel simply _can't. _"Dean, I -."

He doesn't finish the sentence. Not because he stops himself, or because he has run out of things to say, but because in a motion quicker than Castiel can keep up with, Dean has a hand flattened across his jaw, cupping his cheek, pulling him in. He can feel the words he needs to say dying in his throat, stuttering out on the tail-end of his heavy exhale. They're sitting too close and Castiel's hands can't stop shaking.

"You can have this for a few months," Dean whispers, smiling slightly, resting their foreheads together so that Castiel can feel Dean's body heat everywhere, can count the shades of green and gold and blue in his eyes and hear the steady in-and-out of his breath. Dean thumb brushes just under his eye, across his cheekbone, in a touch so delicate and tender that Castiel doesn't know what to do with it. It might be the alcohol, it might be _Dean_, but he can't find it in himself to pull away.

"I…" He licks his lips, feeling breathless, and his throat going dry. He wants. He wants just like he wanted when Dean was singing to him, when he'd first seen the boy, when he had dreamed of Dean…He wants more than he can handle and, tentatively, settles a hand across Dean's pulse, finds it flying but steady. Castiel isn't aware of how cold he is until he puts his skin against Dean's and feels the other teen's warmth.

He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing the scent of _home_ from Dean in, and reopens them. Dean hasn't moved, and for a second Castiel wonders just what the Hell he's waiting for. His father never waited, never asked…never cared. Was just a drunk who ordered and shoved and took what he wanted.

And here Castiel is, drunk, with Dean here for the taking.

He can't.

"You aren't mine to have," he replies, withdrawing then from Dean's embrace though he thinks it might be the hardest damn thing he's ever had to do. He can't look Dean in the eye, can't even look at his own hands, he's so ashamed of his own weakness that led them here. He rubs a hand across his eyes, wiping away any evidence of it from his face, and takes a deep breath. "Thank you for bringing me some food, Dean, I'm sure I'll be very grateful in the morning."

A pause. "No problem, Cas," comes Dean's reply, too quiet, before the younger teen stands so that Castiel has enough room to lay down, which he does, still clothed in his jeans and warm hoodie because he won't make himself more vulnerable in front of Dean. He pulls his duvet up tight around his shoulders and Dean sighs. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Saturday, right?"

"Yeah." Castiel closes his eyes as Dean switches off the bedside light, taking the glass and empty plate back downstairs with him. He doesn't see Dean quickly snatch his phone off of the bedside table along with the dishes. He doesn't see Dean's expression as he bends down underneath the bed, picking up the empty Jameson bottle – like hatred and disgust towards the thing – and he doesn't see Dean leave with it. Instead he curls up, rolling over to face away from the door, and spends the rest of his waking moments forcing himself not to think about Dean's lips and how they would feel, or the boy's body, or anything else that he cannot have.

* * *

><p>Dean doesn't drink a lot – he's had one or two of his father's beers and, of course, church wine, and when they have cookouts whatever by-the-gallon booze his dad makes, he's allowed to have some, but he isn't a big drinker. Not like some of the other kids his age and certainly not like Castiel or his father. One whiff of the whiskey bottle and he knows he wouldn't have been able to stomach more than a swig of that stuff.<p>

The hypocrisy makes him incredibly angry – that Castiel would admit that he has a problem, could turn out like his father, and then continue to drink anyway? No. Not anymore. Furious, frustrated with his completely unpredictable friend, he leaves the house, walking the few houses down the street to Castiel's. He knows the door isn't locked because they didn't lock it, and he quickly slips inside, closing the front door behind him.

If he gets rid of it all, Castiel can't get more without a fake ID and he doesn't seem like the kind of guy to risk prison when he's so close to his 'goals'.

"_Fuck!_" Dean shouts, simply because he can, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes to force himself not to well up, thinking of Castiel leaving. "God _damn _it."

Growling to himself, he goes to Castiel's kitchen and turns on the water – it hasn't been cut yet, that's good – he puts the cold tap on and leaves it running, and then hunts for the back door, which he opens onto the porch and leaves. Then, he goes back to that empty dining room with those dozens of bottles. He uncorks and opens as many bottles as he can carry and goes to the sink, dumping them upside-down and leaving them to drain, and then he goes back for more and empties them into the backyard, spilling over the dead grass and weeds and fallen branches.

It takes five trips to empty everything, and when he does he sits back against the doorframe of the back door, heaving a satisfied sigh. There. At least he feels like he's done something, like he can _do _something to help Castiel. It must be the helplessness, he thinks, that's making him so angry. At least with Michael he could _do _something to keep him calm and relatively sane towards everyone else. But Castiel…Castiel doesn't want anything. At least not from him. Nothing he's willing to reach out and take.

"Why would he say those things and then do _nothing_?" Dean asks, to no one in particular, sighing heavily at his own pathetic behavior, before, on a whim, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out Castiel's phone. He would feel bad about swiping it, but he'll put it right back after and it's not like it's hurting anybody if he just…just checks it out. Right?

He pauses. It feels too intrusive – Dean has no right to call any of the people from Castiel's old life. Castiel chose to leave that behind for a reason – everything he was, including his own name, and Dean has no right to go poking like Michael is trying to and it doesn't make him any better than a jealous, overbearing boyfriend and if Castiel found out Dean has no idea what his reaction would be.

He flips the phone open, and then closed again, biting his lip. He opens it one more time, scrolling down the contacts, though he only finds one. His hand hovers over the 'call' button for an unbearably long time before;

"Dean."

Dean whirls around, eyes wide at being caught, looking at the figure standing in Castiel's old backyard. He frowns and closes the door behind him, slipping Castiel's phone into his pocket, shutting them both out of the house, and walks up towards Michael. The stench of alcohol isn't just in the ground. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Michael replies, smiling too widely, his skin pale underneath the bruises on his cheek and around his eye. Dean tilts his chin up in defiance, jaw clenching slightly. "Aww, come on, baby, don't be like that."

A hand comes up, reaching for Dean's face and the younger teen pushes it away, taking a step back. "I ain't anythin' to you anymore, Michael," he grits out, glaring at the other teenager. "You can't call me that anymore."

Michael's expression darkens. "That how it's gonna be, now?" he asks, taking a step forward and Dean swallows, stepping back again. The _power_ in Michael feels like an itch along his skin and it's hard not to agree and obey his Angel like he used to – but it's not right. Michael is not who he once was and maybe that's Dean's fault and maybe it isn't but fact of the matter is that Michael is no longer the person Dean fell in love with, no longer the person that had been by his side since as far back as he can remember.

"If you keep goin' the way you are, then yeah," Dean replies, eyes flashing up to meet Michael's.

The other teen laughs. "You know…" His eyes move from Dean, up to the house they're standing behind, and then back to Dean. "I'm not sure how much insurance pays out for a house fire, but I'm willing to bet it's a pretty penny. Our little Cas doesn't have much keeping him here, does he? Think about it…almost of-age kid kills his father and burns the house so he gets that _and _his dad's life insurance, all the way having little to no expenses of his own thanks to the _kindness_ of the boy he's fucking." Dean flinches at that, gasping, unable to believe that Michael would stoop that low, would be that fucking _insane_.

"You can't do that," Dean whispers, eyes widening at the sure look on Michael's face – triumphant. "And there's nothing going on between me and him, Michael! Nothing! You _can't_ do this. I'll tell the police it was you – I'll rat you out to everyone."

"For what," Michael hisses, taking another few steps forward, his hand shooting out and taking hold of Dean's arm quickly before the younger teen can get away, pulling them forward until Dean is less than an inch from him. "Castiel will already be gone, baby. There's nothing here for him, then, as you said – it'll be just too damn easy to run him out. Especially with all the booze you've just poured over his backyard and back porch. Wouldn't be hard to find more and add a little more fuel inside."

Michael's breath reeks of beer and Dean flinches again, trying to get away. "You're drunk," he hisses, shoving at Michael until the older teen lets go. "Get away before you do something stupid."

"Think about my offer, baby," Michael whispers, grinning too wide, and Dean swallows, glaring at Michael's back as he walks around the side of the house and towards his own.

"God fucking damn it," he growls, running a hand through his hair and turning around. What in the hell is he supposed to do now? Michael's clearly gone crazy, and Dean has no idea how to stop it – it's true, if Dean goes to the police with no real solid proof then it'll be a 'He said, he said' situation and it doesn't look good for Castiel as it is. "Shit. Shit!"

Dean stops, then, aware of a sound coming from his pocket, and he frowns, fishing out Castiel's phone. The phone that is still open and read's 'Bal' across the screen with a counter still counting. The sound comes again and it sounds like a 'Hello?', in an accent Dean guesses is English.

He carefully brings the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he hazards, scarcely daring to believe that -.

"Oh, hallo there," comes the cheerful, if tired-sounding reply. "You must be Dean. And before you ask, I got pretty much all of that."

Dean's eyes widen and he swallows, looking around to make sure he isn't being watched or anything. "You're Balthazar. You're…" He stops, takes a breath. Priorities. "I don't suppose you recorded any of that?"

"I got the good part," the British man replies smoothly, and Dean lets out a harsh sound of relief, almost like a sob, pressing his palm against his mouth. Thank God. "I'll transfer it to my computer and email it to you. What's your address?" Dean tells him after a moment, voice shaking around the edges as he begins to walk back home, scarcely daring to believe his luck – and it is lucky, so Goddamn lucky he feels lightheaded with relief. "It's sent."

"Thank you," Dean whispers, shutting the door to his house behind him and locking it. "Thank you so much. You have no idea -."

"It's no problem, Dean," Balthazar replies and Dean can hear him smiling. "Although I hope you don't mind if I ask what you're doing with Cas' phone talking to an arsonist?"

"It's…" Dean sighs again, almost another sob escaping him, and treats quietly and quickly up to the attic, knowing he can't be overheard there. "It's quite a story, you know. He's my ex-boyfriend and -."

"The crazy one," Balthazar adds, and Dean pauses, closing his eyes. Of course Balthazar would already know – Castiel probably tells him every damn detail of everything. Of course.

"Yeah." Dean pauses, settling down on the piano bench. "Cas told me you told him he was in love with me," he says, stumbling over the awkward-sounding sentence, and the man on the other end of the line chuckles. "Do you really think that?"

"I think it's written all over him," Balthazar replies, and Dean can hear the creaking of a chair – isn't he in Boston? What time is it over there? Does this guy ever sleep? "But, then again, I've known him for a very long time, through some of the hardest points of his life. I watched the kid grow up."

Dean smiles a little, thinking of Sam and Ruby. "Yeah, I can relate to that," he mutters, rubbing his hand over his mouth and sighing. Sam and Ruby – God, how will he keep them out of Michael's path? If Mister Harvelle calls in sick again, Michael will sub for Ruby's class. Unless Dean gives the recording in first to the police and has Michael arrested or whatever. "So you're like his big brother, I guess."

"In a way, I suppose," the other man concedes and Dean smiles again, relaxing his shoulders slightly.

"I've got a little sister who used to live like Cas did," Dean says, closing his eyes. "Her parents abused her, too, and, I mean…it was just so obvious with her when I first saw her, but I didn't help Cas, I didn't know, and now Michael's going ape-shit and I just want Cas to _stay _here but he refuses and he's going to go places that I can't follow." The other line is silent for a long time and Dean snorts, wiping his face with his hand again, feeling the tears he had been fighting back well up once more, though he tries to stop them. "Sorry for dumping on you, man, I know you don't know me. I just…I don't know, I feel like I need to let you know just how badly I want to watch out for him, make sure he's okay."

He hears Balthazar laughing. "God, you two are just as bad as each other," he mutters, and Dean can imagine that he is rolling his eyes.

"What the Hell does that mean?" he demands.

"It means that you've both obviously got feelings for each other, and whatever it is, you have issues holding you back just like he has issues too. Problem is I know exactly what his problems are, but I don't know who you are, so I can't fix it. I'm a happy coincidence on the other end of a phone, Dean Winchester, but it's up to you to sort out your own relationship problems. Seems to me like you've been stuck too long in a relationship that was all about you giving that you've forgotten how to be selfish, how to be strong enough in your own rights, and that's not what Castiel needs. He doesn't want some fucktoy to throw around – he wants a friend. A companion. One that's as strong as he is, can fight like he can, is worth his time. And I don't think he would still be your friend if he didn't think you were worth it. So step up, Winchester."

Dean blinks. "You should be a guidance counselor," he says with a soft, sarcastic smile.

"I'm training to be a surgeon. People aren't my strong suit."

And Dean laughs softly, because that seems kind of exactly the sort of person that Castiel would choose to bond with – someone as people-awkward as he was, who was smarter than him, stronger than him…

"I don't know if I can be that for him," Dean murmurs after a while, closing his eyes again. "I want to be. But…what if it still doesn't work? What if he refuses to stay? What if -?"

"What if you do nothing, and he leaves anyway, and all you've got is all these 'What If's you're sitting on?" comes the reply, and Dean smirks again. Whoever the Balthazar guy is, he's a Goddamned genius. Dean thanks him once more before hanging up – it's almost ten at night and Dean needs to return Castiel's phone before going to bed, which he does, slipping into the other teen's room and setting it down. Castiel looks so peaceful, his face smooth of pain or doubt or even the alcohol, so he just looks like he is having good dreams, and Dean smiles, wishing he could know what Castiel is thinking about. He slips out just as quietly and into his own bed, Sam's snores a familiar background soundtrack for him.

He goes to his backpack and pulls out his phone. '_I have a recording of your confession, Michael. Don't do anything stupid.' _That sent, he undresses and settles into bed, pulling the covers tight around himself, and that night, he dreams about that house fire that happened when he was four years old, but instead of his father trapped inside, it is Castiel, and no one runs to save him. Dean doesn't, because he is too afraid, and he just stands there and watches the house burn.

And outside, it starts to rain.


	6. Chapter 6

**SO CHEESY GUYS I AM SO SORRY.**

* * *

><p>Castiel wakes up feeling like he's been hit over the head with a two-by-four. He is sore, more sore than he has felt in a long time, or at least, since he moved into the Winchester household – feels like forever and a day, and isn't that just the strangest thing?<p>

The blinds are drawn closed in his room, sunlight peeking through underneath, and Castiel blinks, frowning, when he hears the soft, slow patter of rainfall as well. Sun and rain. Naturally. He shoves himself upward, wincing as his tired muscles protest – he knows he hasn't done anything to strain himself but, admittedly, last night is a little hazy to him.

He remembers Dean coming in, giving him food, water and painkillers which are undoubtedly the reason for his lack of hangover, considering how much he remembers drinking. He remembers Dean talking to him, though about what he can't for the life of him recall. Remembers Dean's warmth, the feeling of his hand on Castiel's face.

Remembers wanting with all his being to kiss Dean, to have Dean, right in that moment.

Castiel blinks again, looking down at his feet. No. Nothing had happened – he knows what sex smells and feels like by now. There is no way in Hell anything happened with Dean. No way in Hell Dean would _let _him…

He pushes himself to his feet, shoving a hand through his hair and sighing heavily. Never again. It's terrifying, not being able to remember with perfect clarity what went on…he checks the clock on his bed-side table…what went on not even twelve hours ago.

"Fuckin' hypocrite," he tells himself, rubbing his hands over his face. He can feel sleep in his eyes and his mouth feels dry and full of cotton, and he grimaces. He can't hear a thing going on, can't hear movement downstairs but knows enough about the sound of the Winchester house by now to realize he should. No one is home.

Or no one is awake, but it is almost ten in the morning so he has a hard time fathoming that.

He shoves himself out of his room and into the bathroom across the hall, stripping once he has the door closed behind him, and steps into the water before it fully warms up, shivering before relaxing into the heat of the shower. He closes his eyes, letting the warm water wash away his cotton-mouth and the grease from his hair and the soreness from his muscles. The steam seems to clear his head, too, and he finds he can remember a little more from last night.

At least, remember how he himself felt. He remembers pushing Dean away but wishing with everything that he is, was, has, that Dean would refuse to go. But Dean isn't like that – Dean, of course, self-sacrificing, _good_, wholesome Dean – would respect the wishes of an abused kid he hardly even knows. Would probably do anything Castiel, or anyone, asked of him. Because that is who he _is._

_"You can have this for a few months." _Castiel's mouth twists down in anger, remembering the words as he grabs at a random bottle of shampoo – maybe Dean's, maybe Sam's, he doesn't really care – and lathers it into his hair. _God, _to have Dean. To know and keep him in every way possible. To be able to call Dean his own, to just…

Castiel swallows. No. He shouldn't like this. Not just because Dean isn't his – no, it's thoughts like this that get people into trouble. Turn people into Michael and his father and every other possessive and abusive bastard in the world. Dean isn't a _thing_, to have and claim and keep like a toy or a trophy. Dean is not something to be bought or traded or owned or _stolen._

He closes his eyes, tilting his head back to let the water wash the shampoo out of his hair. His body still aches, but not nearly as bad as before – looking at himself, he sees that with a better diet with the Winchesters, and with time, most of the bruises have completely faded away. His face probably looks a helluva lot better too, and soon…soon, Castiel will bear no physical marks anymore. Nothing to say that any of the past eight years have ever happened.

Weird.

He shoves the shower off again once everything is rinsed and he's washed himself, toweling dry and slipping back into the clothes he had worn to bed, since he hadn't brought anything else with him. At that moment his stomach rumbles, loudly, reminding him that is it breakfast time. He goes downstairs, hesitating a little on the threshold to the kitchen.

Mary is there, humming that same song she had been humming the first time she met Castiel, and had made him soup. She's standing in front of a microwave, heating up what Castiel assumes is leftovers from the night before, and turns when she notices him standing there.

"Morning," she says brightly. "You hungry?"

Castiel smiles a little, ducking his head down. "If it's not too much trouble," he says, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Absolutely no problem, Jimmy, what are ya in the mood for?"

Castiel pauses for a moment. He had almost forgotten that he was still a lie to some people. "Castiel," he says.

"Hmm?"

"Castiel," he repeats, looking up into Mary's bright and puzzled eyes. "That's my real name. Jimmy – James – was my father and…" He looks down once more, shifting his weight uneasily. Somehow, in some way he can't explain, this woman's opinion of him actually means something to him. Just like this entire family.

Winchesters really had a way of getting under your skin.

"My real name is Castiel."

For a second, Mary is silent, and then she smiles. "Alright, Castiel, what are you in the mood for?" And again, Castiel finds himself wondering is anything phases this family. He shrugs. "Alright, no problem, if you want to get dressed then I'll whip something up and call you back down when it's ready."

He nods. "Thank you…Mary," he says, still stumbling over calling her by her first name – he doesn't think he actually has since she insisted on it, but her bright smile is encouraging, and Castiel feels better, heading back upstairs into his room. He shrugs off the sleep shirt and sleep pants and throws a t-shirt and hoodie on, and a pair of jeans. If he listens very carefully he can hear Mary singing downstairs.

Music runs in this family.

He looks around the guest room again – he hasn't unpacked, has only been here two nights. At a stretch if he counts the Thursday, where he hardly slept at all. So much has changed and it feels like forever ago since he met Dean, since he confessed his true nature to the boy, since…since his father had passed away. Since Michael had gone from mildly worrying to a downright threat.

Everything was happening so fast and Castiel blinks when he realizes his religiously-marked calendar was still in his father's house. He stands, putting on socks and shoes, and heads back downstairs, telling Mary where he is going. And hesitates on the threshold of the door.

May 20th. The day he is going to be free. The day he had to look forward to. But the thought of leaving settles like lead in his gut.

His fingers curl into the doorframe, gripping tight, and he clenches his jaw. Strange as it is – everything seems to be strange right now – all he can think about is how much it would hurt Dean, to see Castiel marking that calendar, ticking away the days until he leaves. Dean doesn't want him to leave – he's starting to think no one does except Michael, and to be honest he's tempted to stay just to spite the son of a bitch.

But he has to go. He will leave, come graduation. He'll be eighteen, he'll sell the house if it is still in his possession, he'll fly to New York or LA. He. Will. Leave.

But…Castiel takes a step back, uncurling his fingers from the wood and closing the door behind him…but he doesn't need to think about it. He doesn't need to keep watching – doesn't need to tell himself _just a few more months. _No, already, in his head, it's turning into _only a few months left. A few short months, Cas, what are you going to do about it?_

He needs to…to talk to someone. Needs Bal, wished Bal were here with him to give him guidance. It would probably be shitty guidance, but at least Castiel was good at figuring out what was morally alright and compare it to what Bal suggested. At least this way he kept on _someone's _version of the straight and narrow.

He needs to think. Turning around, he runs back upstairs and grabs the CD he had burned from YouTube of karaoke versions of the songs for _Wicked_, should he ever feel like practicing them. Music helps him think – helps him get lost in other people's emotions so he doesn't have to deal with his own.

The first song on there is _Defying Gravity, _because he hadn't burned them in order. Even with the karaoke version, Glinda and Elfaba's exchange are already on the beginning of the track.

_"I hope you're happy. I hope you're happy now…" _He clenches his jaw, shutting the door to the attic behind him and letting the fact that he is now in a soundproof room relax him. _"I hope you're happy how you've hurt your cause forever. I hope you think you're clever."_

Glinda and Fiyero's parts had been merged, in this new script, so that half of Glinda's roles were now filled in by Nessa and the other half by Dean's part. Castiel would be singing this directly to Dean. He supposes it's kind of fitting.

"I hope you're happy," he bites out, singing along with the song, his part. "I hope you're happy too. I hope you're proud how you would grovel in submission to feed your own ambition."

He sighs. Feels like he's talking to himself, there – he hates that part of himself. The part that he knows will do anything and everything to get to where he wants to be. The part that will let his father push him around just so that he can make it a few more days without having to pay for his own food and living expenses, so that he has just that little bit more for when he is free. The part that lets itself starve for food in the future. The part that denies everything that could ever hold him back, for the sake of that future Castiel – the one who stayed on the path, didn't stray. Never let himself feel a Goddamn thing.

He clenches his hands tightly, closing his eyes, and sits down facing the door, back against the wall. _"Listen to me. Just say you're sorry. You can still…"_

Still what? Yes – he can do everything he ever wanted. Have everything he had never let himself want and still leave, break a boy he had never even known before this year – can ruin a relationship, tear apart a family, make people _give a shit_ about him, though for what reason he cannot fathom…He can do all of it and _still leave_. He can make himself not feel anything.

"I know," he whispers, rubbing a hand through his hair, following the song – or, at least, he tells himself that. "But I don't want it – no, I _can't_ want it – anymore."

He sighs again, pushing himself onto his feet as the music builds up a little, piano, bells, piano again. _"Something has changed within me," _he begins, realizing just how true it is, and God damn it he hadn't meant to slip this far – slipping and falling without every trying, without doing anything. Falling while _staying upright. "Something is not the same. I'm through with playing by the rules -."_

His voice cracks on that high note and he stops, wincing, and swallows. He needs some water, but he can't stop now. He just…he needs to sing. Never found such freedom in song before but it feels so much like this is _his _song and that's just ridiculous because it's for a stupid musical that isn't even the real musical anymore, but that doesn't matter because maybe…maybe Elfabio _is _the character that he is meant to play. The witch. The barbarian who's fallen in love with the perfect, _wholesome_ man.

_"Too late for second guessing. Too late to go back to sleep. It's time to trust my instincts…" _Castiel smirks at that. Instinct. Instinct hasn't helped him any, and yet he used to pride himself on how good his were. _"Close my eyes…and leap."_

_Leap, Cas, come on._

The chorus is soft, the first time around – quiet. Castiel has to take a step back, withdraw, let himself think about the mechanics of the song and not just sing it like he wants to – sing it like it's breaking him inside. Later, yes, when his head is clearer, but he can't right now. Because if he does he just might break for real and that is _not _what he does. He can't.

_"Can't I make you understand -." _Fiyero's part, the part telling him to calm down. Stay focused. Doesn't fit with Dean. Doesn't seem right. One part in which the characters are so different. "_You're having delusions of grandeur -?"_

_"I'm through accepting limits," _Castiel bites, flinging his arm out, as if to punch someone. He wants to. There is no one here, no one to hurt, to yell at, but he _wants_ to – how dare you, he wants to say, how dare you make me want you, and love you, and want to stay. I hate you. I hate you so much. _"'Cause someone says they're so. Some things I cannot change but 'til I try I'll never know…_

_Too long I've been afraid of losing love…I guess I've lost…" _Castiel trails off a little, then, opening his eyes. He will lose Dean. Will lose him if he keeps pushing him away. He doesn't want to. Please, God, don't let him. _"Well if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost."_

His future. His mind. Everything. Everything he could ever hope to gain could be lost if he isn't strong enough, now, to keep away. To stay away.

"I don't want to," he whispers to himself, eyes wide at the realization, when he should be singing the chorus. "Fuck. I don't _want_ to."

He looks up, towards the closed attic door, and bolts. Hurries out of the attic without even bothering to stop the song where it is. He doesn't grab a jacket – it's too warm outside and he intends to hurry anyway – and finds Mary still in the kitchen.

"I might be gone for a while," he says apologetically, knowing she was making food for him, and she just shrugs.

"Send him my love," is all she says, and Castiel blinks at her.

She knows. Of course she does.

He smiles widely at her, suddenly wanting more than anything to hug her, to thank her for bringing her family into his life – but he can't. He has no idea how to act around a mother, so all he does is nod and smile when she smiles back, and turns and runs down the half-remembered route, as fast as he possibly can.

* * *

><p>Dean had arrived at the church at seven in the morning, and he is still there three hours later. It isn't a rehearsal, there is no reason for him to be there at that moment. He just feels…feels so lost and the church has always made him feel safe. Feel like someone is watching over him.<p>

He is sitting at the piano – not his instrument of choice, but he knows enough about it to know which notes are which and which notes generally fit together. He reaches out, plays out a C chord, and sighs. Rising from the bench, he leaves the Chapel proper, and heads through the Annex to the Blessed Sacrament Chapel. He hasn't been in here since his last night with Michael – his shoulders tense as he steps inside, looking up to see the statues of Mary and Joseph, and the cross behind the altar.

Without a word he goes to the backmost pew, on the left-hand side, and kneels on the faded and old cushion hanging on the pew in front. He leans forward and braces his elbows on the little platform that arcs behind the pew in front, lacing his hands together loosely in a relaxed version of the prayer position his mother taught him when he was younger.

Strange though it sounds, and stupid beyond that, he feels like Michael is in here with him, but that feeling doesn't bring him peace as it used to. Closing his eyes, he sees images of Angels fighting, their wings blocking out the sun with how big they are, their swords flashing as they fight. Dean has had this story in his head before – the Fall of Lucifer, the destruction of the demon kind and their banishment to Hell. But there are no demons this time. Only Angels, fighting amongst themselves.

He opens his eyes again and looks to the cross, and it is then that he realizes that it has been a long, long time since he actually prayed. Since his faith was shaken enough to warrant anything more than the background peace and joy that he feels towards God every day, for blessing him with such a good life, for Michael and Ruby and Sam and his parents. For Castiel. A long time since it's been anything more than a Thank You at the dinner table.

"So, it's been a while," he starts off, rubbing the back of his head and smiling a little at the statue of Jesus. From this angle, it looks like the figurine is staring right back at him, and he casts his eyes down – makes it feel more real, like this, but a helluva lot more open and personal too. He wonders how many times Michael had him, in here, and he had never noticed before – thought that because he didn't see them, they couldn't see him. "But I guess that's my fault. Hell, I know it is. I guess I've just been…preoccupied."

Nothing happens. He doesn't expect anything to happen, but that doesn't change the slight twinge of disappointment he feels – no breeze stirs the curtains, no whisper or cool chill trickles in. God is a very silent conversationalist.

He slouches down from the kneeling position, letting his thighs rest on the seat behind him, and sighs again. "A lot of stuff's been happening down here," he says, feels like he needs to update the All-Knowing. Silly. Makes him feel better, though. "I don't know why now. Why you sent him now. It seems kind of like the worst timing in the world, and he'll only be here for…"

Dean shakes his head, heaving in a deep breath. Even though he knows, knows it as surely as he knew anything else, it still hurts like a knife to the heart to think of Castiel leaving. Of never seeing him again after Castiel has done so much – helped him in ways Dean doesn't even understand right now. Shown him things about _people _that he never would have seen anywhere else.

How strong someone can be. Even with what he knows about Ruby, with Castiel he has _seen _it, first hand. To think that Castiel would have kept going on like that, without showing a single recognizable sign, without complaining, faking a lack of hunger, skipping out on meals so he could have money in the future, working with Dean on his music from afar – and Dean wouldn't have known about _any _of it.

It's amazing, what happens right under your nose, behind a neighbor's closed door.

"He's…" Dean snorts, shaking his head, rubbing the heel of his hand against one of his eyes as he feels that tight feeling in his throat, finds it's getting harder to talk, a lump of _something_ stuck in there. "He's really amazing, God, he is. But…it seems really screwed up, you know, to kind of drop him in and pull him out again just like that."

He pauses, again, looking up to the cross.

"Why?" he whispers. "Why did you send him?" To help him see how messed up Michael really was? To be a strength to Ruby? To save Dean? "I just…I know you're meant to be unfathomable and all that but a freakin' bone would be nice."

Dean sighs again, rubbing at his face and swallowing once more – he won't get emotional, damn it. How does Cas make it look so easy? Dean has never been that great at keeping secrets, or hiding his emotions – even when he tries, the people he is trying to lie to always seem to see right through him. How did they ever make it look so easy?

"I guess I…" He pauses, rubbing a hand through his hair, and gets to his feet. "I guess I just want a sign, man. Whenever you get the chance. To let me know what I'm supposed to do."

When he gets back into the Church proper, it feels bigger, somehow – it's small and he knows it is, designed only to hold a small congregation since there's a really big one in the next city, but it feels too hot and cavernous when he reenters, and goes back to the piano. Singing will help – helps to calm him down when prayer can't, when he feels like there is nothing left to do but just say what's on his mind.

* * *

><p>When Castiel finally makes it to the church, he stops. Inside, he hears music, and Dean's voice, just faintly, through the cracked stained glass doors.<p>

Are they at a music practice? His stomach suddenly feels like it's twisted up, thinking of Michael and Dean being in the same room together, of _singing _together. Somehow, even though he has no idea how, that seems like something he would be more upset about than if they were fucking. Dean's voice – that is something about him that makes him even more exceptional, even more brilliant and beautiful than he already is.

Sex is…well, sex is sex, but thousands of people every day have meaningless sex. Dean's voice feels like his soul, feels like a part of him that will never be taken away, coming out, and the idea that _Michael _gets to share in that while Castiel can't…

No.

He has to know. Won't jump to conclusions.

His hands shake – what is it about Dean that always makes him tremble? – when he pushes against the glass doors, into the small foyer that turns a corner to lead into the church. Inside, the doors are glass again, but completely see through and, dreading what he will see, he peeks inside.

Dean – he sees him immediately, sitting behind the piano bench. On this side of the doors his voice is a little more audible, though the words aren't, and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief for a moment when he finds that there is no one else there. Heart hammering, he pushes open those doors as well and steps inside, silent.

_"Every single day I find it hard to say that I…" _Dean pauses, brow furrowing, his eyes darting over the keys, before he sighs, smashing out a random discordant set of notes, shoulders slumping. He's really no fucking good at piano – Ruby should just play and he would try to keep up.

"Alright, from the beginning," he mutters, not hearing or noticing Castiel come in, or take a seat on the back pew.

He finds the chord again. _"I'm stretching but you're just out of reach." _Next one – "_You should know that I'm ready when…you're ready for me and…" _A pause, what came next? _"And I'm waiting for the right time, for the day I catch your eye to let you know that I'm…yours to hold…" _

Castiel's fingers clench tightly in the thin cushions on the pews. Dean's voice is just…so fucking beautiful. It's like sitting in that auditorium all over again, listening to him live for the first time. How he had ever thought to change the way Dean sings, he can't even imagine.

He gets to his feet – it's now or never. He's come too far for this now. Fallen without even tripping or stumbling.

Walking down the middle aisle, Dean finally senses he's there – dark eyes flash up to meet his and widen in surprise. "Cas?" he hazards, getting to his feet and coming around to the edge of the piano, just as Castiel takes the step up onto the raised platform where the altar is, and stops. For a long second neither of them say anything. Then; "When did you get here?"

"That song was beautiful," Castiel replies, at a loss of anything else to say, and Dean flushes, looking down.

"Doubt I'll be able to remember it."

"I will." He takes a step forward. "Dean."

The younger teen's eyes meet his, raw, full of some emotion Castiel can't quite place yet. "Yeah, Cas? What's up?"

"I…" Castiel swallows, suddenly frozen. He had had all these things to say, everything he wanted to get out, to tell Dean, and it's all gone. Every single word. "I…" He swallows, unable to look away from Dean, unable to step closer, unable to do a Goddamn thing. He just feels _stuck_.

Dean's brow furrows. "Are you okay?" he asks, taking a step forward. It puts him within reach – so close, and Castiel imagines he can feel his warmth, just like last night. He wants to touch and, for perhaps the first time ever, he doesn't fight it, doesn't deny himself what he wants – he reaches forward, slides his hands up to rest against Dean's shoulder, fingers digging in tight.

"It's selfish," he says, finally, meeting Dean's eyes again, stepping closer. "It's selfish, and unfair, and horrible in ways I have never tried to be."

"What are you talking about?" He's confused, and looks worried – looks like Castiel is about to tell him some very bad news. He's braced for it, shoulders tense under Castiel's hand, lips turned down, eyes concerned. "Cas, what do you mean?"

"I…" He's searching Dean's face, looking for something, anything, to tell him to back away – but no, Dean is still open, welcoming, _warm _in a way Castiel thinks humans never have been. No more time for words. His other hand moves up Dean's arm, flattens across the side of Dean's neck, and he pulls the younger teen down their small height difference and presses their mouths together.

The effect is immediate – Dean gasps against his mouth, but within a second he's answering the kiss, pressing closer, running a hand through Castiel's hair and pulling him in – _keeping him in_. Relief hits Castiel like a punch in the gut – it's all he can do to keep standing, keep kissing Dean.

Kissing Dean…it's like a broken dam, just pouring out. His heart feels like it's going to leap out of his throat, and already the soft drag of Dean's slightly-chapped lips against his own is the best damn thing he's felt in maybe his entire life.

"Dean," he whispers, gasps out as his own hand finds Dean's hair, fists lightly in the too-short, fine strands, fingers curling around the nape of the younger boy's neck. "I'm sorry."

"Don't," Dean replies, kissing him again, and again – the press of Dean's lips silences him, warm, soft, everything he had ever dreamt about, ever thought about them. "Don't be. It's okay." He's running a hand down Castiel's flank, stroking, soothing, fingers curling gently around Castiel's hip when they find it, pulling him close. "It's okay, Cas."

Castiel shakes his head, but says no more – no more time for that. Finally – _finally_ – he's kissing Dean, and taking what he wants and Dean is letting him – Dean is _giving back_. Castiel has never felt so owned and so empowered at the same time, feeling Dean's racing heartbeat against his fingertips, hearing the gasping unevenness of his breath as they keep kissing, keep diving into each other like they're desperate for it.

And it's kind of absolutely fucking perfect.


	7. Chapter 7

_**I AM SO SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG OKAY I HAVE NO EXCUSE I AM SORRY. Think of it like S6 okay it's going to pick up later but for now you'll have to bear with me I am so so so sorry okay I am sorry.**_

* * *

><p>Castiel never wants it to end – he could spent forever sliding his fingers through Dean's hair, tilting his head into the welcoming press of Dean's mouth, feel the first tentative stroke of Dean's warm hand down his spine until his knees feel like he's going to melt into the floor.<p>

And then catches up with him – his lungs are burning and he needs air or he's probably going to pass out. Not the smoothest way to have a first kiss. So he pulls away, places his mouth against Dean's jaw instead and just listens to him breathe. Dean is warm, so unbelievably warm like the heat of a fire in winter, and Castiel just wants to bury himself into Dean and never come back out.

He takes in a deep breath, soothing his burning lungs, and leans back, looking up into Dean's face. The Winchester boy's eyes are closed, his lips slightly swollen and flushed and wet on the inside, slightly parted so Castiel can see his teeth. His cheeks are flushed too. He looks gorgeous, Castiel never wants to let him go.

"Dean…" he starts, but his voice goes soft and his mouth is dry and he has nothing to say.

"What changed?" Dean asks, eyes fluttering open, emotive green eyes so wide and bright that for a moment all Castiel can do is stare. What he would give to just stay like this for a little longer, but that question – the harsh truth of the answer. It won't last long.

"Nothing," he confesses, knowing the truth now will be better than any lie he can concoct. "Nothing has changed. That's why it's selfish. That's why I can't -."

"Shut up," Dean snaps, but he's smiling a little bit and already leaning in and, damn it, Castiel doesn't want to fight it. So he doesn't – he tilts his head again and closes his eyes and lets Dean's kiss speak for him; he doesn't want to go. Doesn't want this moment to end. He will, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

He doesn't know how they end up going from kissing in front of the altar to collapsing over one another on one of the long pews, Dean pinned underneath Castiel as the older teen straddles his thighs, tries to get some purchase on the smooth and narrow seats and instead finds it in Dean's clothing, locking on and holding tight as Dean manages to prop himself up enough that Castiel can comfortably sit in his lap without either of them falling on their asses.

"_Dean_," Castiel gasps, feeling lust flare down his spine like a hand is scratching it into his spine, taking a hold of his spine and tugging hard, setting him alight. He hasn't felt this way since…well, since ever, really. Sex had lost most of its flare for Castiel but Dean seemed to just set it all alight again. He feels like he's shaking, he might be shaking, can't quite tell, but Dean's breathing unsteadily beneath him and he feels really, really warm and if Castiel tilts his hips just the right way…

There it is. He can feel Dean thickening up beneath him, rolls his hips to get better friction for Dean just to hear the younger boy gasp, Dean's strong hands wrapping around Castiel's skinny hips, the spurs of his hipbones fit so nicely there too, until Dean's hands move further back against his spine and splay out wide, pulling him closer until Dean has to tilt his head right back and Castiel can't feel a single part of himself that isn't touching Dean in some way.

And Dean's grinding back up against him, teeth sinking into Castiel's lower lip to feel him shiver, his breath picking up and Castiel can feel his heartbeat racing underneath his palm, and then Dean's stroking through his hair and it feels so damn good, being wanting like this, touched as though he actually means something to the person touching him. Kind of novel, really.

But… "Dean…" Castiel pulls back, then, partially because he needs more air, and partially because… "We can't. Not here." _Not yet_, he wants to say, never wants to feel as though some nameless faceless God is watching him with this look of disapproval and disgust, or even admiration – fuck any God he has to earn the love of. He's not even sure he wants to go that far with Dean…not yet, anyway; the wounds are too raw and too real and to be honest now that they've slowed down, the proximity is making him tremble for an entirely different reason.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on Dean's face to rid himself of those feelings.

Dean is biting his lower lip, looking up to Castiel's face, before his eyes widen and he lets go immediately, Castiel sliding off of him without a word. "Sorry, Cas," he murmurs, looking down and flushing with shame. Of course Castiel wouldn't want him…here. Not with Michael's stain still so obviously on him. He rubs his palms onto the tops of his thighs, breathing deep to try and slow his heart rate down, calm his breathing. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Castiel whispers in reply, sitting next to Dean on the pew. "I very rarely let myself get carried away."

Dean's not sure if that's an absolution or an excuse on Castiel's part, but he doesn't ask either. He stands, and together they switch off the sound system and leave the quiet church to return home.

* * *

><p>The silence in Dean's car is almost uncomfortable to Castiel – they don't even have the radio on, and they <em>always<em> have the radio on, Dean singing along to every song that comes on like he has every one committed to memory, even if he doesn't know the words.

They pull up in front of the Winchester house and Dean cuts the engine, making to get out of the car, but Castiel's hands on his thigh stops him.

He freezes. "What is it, Cas?" he asks, face so open and honest and Castiel feels like some dirty stain on his brightness, his goodness. Selfish and dirty and awful.

"I…" He pauses, swallows, searches Dean's bright eyes for something, anything, to tell him that what he's feeling is justified – at least if Dean hated him he would be able to acknowledge that. But…God, his head is so messed up. What is it about this boy that just turns him upside-down? "I'm sorry."

"You keep apologizing," Dean says, smiling a little and shaking his head. "You've done nothing wrong." He closes the door again, settling back into the front seat of the Impala, arm slung over the bench seat again like he's so relaxed when Castiel feels like he's stretched tighter than a bowstring.

Castiel just watches him, for a long moment, jaw clenching and unclenching as he thinks of what to say – but there isn't anything to say. How much he wishes that Balthazar were with him, to provide a safe house and guidance for his confused mind. Instead he sighs, and turns away to get out of the car, Dean following him inside.

Mary is there to greet them both, smiling a little as she finishes packing the leftovers of her prepared breakfast into Tupperware to put away, and Castiel feel another stab of guilt when he sees the food, knowing she was making it for him only to have him ditch her to go make out with and defile her son. "Castiel," she says, stumbling over the name for a moment, "your father's attorney called. A Mr. Crowley. He wants to meet with you."

"On a Saturday?" Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow as Dean walks forward and takes the Tupperware from his mother and, instead of putting it in the fridge, stuffs it into the microwave for a few seconds, easy as anything. Like nothing has changed. Like his entire world hasn't been flipped on its edge.

Maybe it hasn't for him. Maybe Castiel doesn't mean anything.

He swallows and tries to pay attention to what Mary is telling him. "You're the closest relative to settle his affairs. He wouldn't say anything more," she says with a one-shoulder shrug. "If you'd like I'm sure John or Dean could drive you if it's not on a school day. His number's on the fridge."

"Thank you," Castiel says, and sure enough, scribbled on a post-it note is 'Mr. Crowley' followed by an office number. Castiel takes it and folds it into his pocket. He's not sure he can deal with a lawyer right now, so soon – damn, sharks work fast – and he has a lot to think about. "I'll call him later."

He runs upstairs without another word, not hungry anymore, and up into the attic. The soundtrack he'd burned is still playing, now _Not That Girl _just starting up and he swallows, turning the CD player off. That song had been cut from the musical anyway because Chuck hadn't been able to reword it enough to make it work. Besides most of the lion, tin man and scarecrow part was being omitted anyway. Castiel has to wonder, just for a second, if the whole musical hadn't merely been an attempt to see if they could, rather than because anyone really wanted to do that particular play.

He sighs again, running a hand through his hair. He wants to call Bal, but twice in one week? Talk about needy. His friend would give him no end of grief for it. This is what happens when he has too much time to think about his life – at least when his father had been alive it had been simple. Not very pleasant, but pretty damn simple. Now…God, how can he feel like the luckiest man in the world and at the same time want nothing more than to die?

He runs his hands through his hair again, sitting down and resting his back against this ugly teal upright piano the Winchesters have in their attic, and only lifts his head when he hears footsteps coming up to join him. The dark hair marks the newcomer as not Dean or Sam, and Castiel sighs out a large breath when he sees Ruby joining him next to the piano.

"Do you need the space?" he asks, figuring she had come up here to practice and that he should leave.

Ruby shakes her head. "Dean thought you were upset." Castiel can't help but smile. He used to be better at hiding this sort of thing. "I thought maybe you would want to talk."

"I have nothing to say," he replies, lifting his head and sighing, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "What could I possibly say?"

She pauses. "Whatever you want, Cas. You can do that, now."

Whatever he wants. What a dangerous thing – freedom, free will. He sighs again, running his hands through his hair once more, then down over his face. It still smarts a little but most of it is more aesthetic than anything else anymore – his father rarely had hit to actually debilitate him. It was more of a perk than an intention.

"I want to stay," he whispers, admits to the quiet of the Winchesters' attic and this slight little girl who is so much like him and so much stronger in ways he could never be. He admires Ruby, so much, and knows she'll do so much with her life, and be happy. If only he could just be happy. "But I have to go. I've…I've always said that I'll go, that I'll get away, but what is there to get away from now? Where am I running where I can't find it right here? And what if it doesn't work out – what if I leave but there's nothing out there for me – what if I stay and it's the opposite? I just…God damn it, things were so _simple_ and now they're just so _fucked up_."

"It's gonna be okay, Cas," Ruby murmurs, setting a hand on his shoulder and he wants to ask her how – _how, how can it possibly be okay_? He's going to ruin them, assuming they care enough about him for him to ruin them at all.

Maybe he doesn't. Maybe Dean's just letting him 'have this' because he knows he's going to leave. Maybe Dean's so Goddamn used to being used that he doesn't even care anymore, will let anyone with any kind of desire for him just use him and leave him for the next better thing.

"How do you know?" he asks instead of all the other things he wants to ask – she's not the right person for it, anyway. She's only fifteen, for God's sake.

He can hear her smile; "I have faith."

He snorts. Faith. "Yeah, well…" He rubs his hand over his mouth, wincing at the tug on the sore muscles in his face, and licks his lips. He imagines he can still taste Dean in his mouth. "It's not going to happen tomorrow, is it? And I'll be eighteen soon."

"How soon?" Ruby asks, curious as she turns her body to face him, leaning forward to rest their shoulders together and he smiles, resting his head on hers. Not for the first time, he wishes he had a little sister or brother, someone to be stupid and innocent, something for him to live for and fight for rather than just himself. Maybe his father would have been better if there had been more than just the two of them. Maybe he'd have been worse.

"January fourth. I was a prom night baby," he says with a snort of derision and a roll of his eyes. "At least I assume I was."

"Were your parents that young?" she asks, surprised.

"You'd have to be," is all he says in reply, shifting away from her again. His parents, he'd always assumed they'd been young when they conceived him. What happened to his mother he doesn't know – maybe she went off to college, maybe she fled back to her family, or maybe nothing happened to her and she just forgot. Doesn't matter anymore – Castiel has intention or desire to track her down. He'd have run away too, if he could.

"We'll have to throw you a party. Eighteen's a big number," she says, pushing herself to her feet and dusting off the backs of her jeans where she had been sitting. Castiel just manages a smile. "Mom told me to remind you to call that lawyer guy – I think maybe the bank doesn't wanna wait too long before taking care of the will. I guess." She shrugs. "Law's more Sam's thing, I think."

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Ruby?" Castiel asks, partly because he's curious, partly because he wonders what normal kids desire out of live, rather than just to be alive.

She smiles, and shrugs one shoulder – the Winchester shrug. "I wanna take care of kids," she says, of course she does, she probably gets that from Mary. "Like maybe a primary school teacher or a kindergarten worker or something."

"You'd make a good one," he says, because he means it but he also has nothing else to say.

Ruby just smiles at him. "Stop stalling," she says, "and start sorting yourself out."

Yes. Definitely gets it from Mary.


End file.
